THE 


NE  FAIR 


WOMAN. 


JOAQUIN    MILLER. 


THREE     VOLUMES    IN    ONE. 


NEW   YORK: 

G.    W.    Carleton  &    Co.,  Publishers. 

LONDON:     CHAPMAN    &    HALL. 
MDCCCLXXVI. 


PS 
2397 


COPYRIGHTED,  1876,  BY 
G.  W.  CARLKTON  &  CO. 


JOHN  F.  TROW  &  SON, 

PRINTERS  AND  STEREOTYPKRS, 

205-213  Kiist  \-zth  Street, 

Ntvv  YORK. 


CONTENTS. 


I. — From  London  to  Genoa 11 

II.— The  Lady  in  Pink 22 

III.— In  the  City  of  Palaces 25 

IV. — Countess  Edna 32 

V.  — Mad  or  not  Mad 41 

VI. — Good-bye,  beautiful  Lady 52 

VII. — Naples — an  Old  Landmark 58 

VIII — Roses  in  her  Path 68 

IX.— On  the  Mountain  of  Fire 73 

X.— On  St.  Paul's  Pier 85 

XI.— In  the  Eternal  City 89 

XII. — A  Scene  in  the  Coliseum 100 

XIII.— An  Interlude 108 

XIV.— An  Innocent  Duel 113 

XV.— Down  the  Tiber 121 

XVI.— People  of  the  Campagna 127 

XVII.— Real  Countesses 133 

XVIII.— The  Roman  Ghetto 144 

XIX.— The  Pink  Lady  in  St.  Peter's 153 

XX.— The  Countess  at  Home 165 

XXI.— An  Italian  Doctor 173 

XXII.— On  the  Pincian  Hill 186 

XXIII.— A  Railroad  King  in  Rome 194 

XXIV.— The  Pink  Princess  204 

XXV. — New  Rome  and  New  Romans 211 

XXVI.— Carnival  Eve. .  .  .224 


vi  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXVII.— Saturn  Sailing  Down  the  Tiber 230 

XXVIII.— In  a  Bad  Atmosphere 241 

XXIX.— "Est,  Est,  Est" 251 

XXX. — Confetti  Day  on  the  Corso 255 

XXXI.— On  the  Capitoline  Hill 261 

XXXII. — Marietta  sees  his  Shadow 275 

XXXIII.— Campo  Santo 283 

XXXIV.— A  Blunt,  but  Honest  Man 292 

XXXV.— At  the  Roman  Race-Course 297 

XXXVI—  A  March  Hare  and  a  Hatter 305 

XXXVII.— On  the  Appiau  Way 311 

XXXVIII.— In  the  Catacombs 326 

XXXIX— With  the  One  Fair  Woman 334 

XL.— Bread  on  the  Waters 344 

XLL— The  Californian  Girl 351 

XLII.— In  the  Palace  of  a  Prince 361 

XLIIL— "  Old  Antiquities  " 371 

XLIV.— "  I  have  Something  to  Tell  You" 382 

XL V.— What  They  Say 390 

XLVL— A  New  Current  of  Life 402 

XLVII.— The  Earthly  Paradise 408 

XLVIII.— Peace  in  the  Flower-Land 414 

XLIX.— A  Man  for  Manhood's  Sake 422 

L. — Good-bye,  Tarpeian  Rock 427 

LI. — Farewell,  Fair  Woman 431 

LII. — A  Skeleton  in  a  Closet , 434 

LIU. — Crossing  the  Rubicon 447 

LIV.— The  Three  Towers 452 

LV.— In  a  Gondola 463 

LVI.  —Drifting 470 

LVII. — We  will  Reform  To-morrow 476 

LVIII.— Como  at  Last 479 

LIX.— Sitting  by  her  Side  at  Last 485 

LX.— The  Old  Admiral  Proposes 492 


CONTENTS.  vii 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

LXI.— Child-Stealing 499 

LX1I.— Love,  or  Duty  ? 507 

LXIIL—  A  Boat-Race  on  Lake  Como 516 

LXIV.— In  Milan 523 

LXV.— A  Very  Unfortunate  Man 530 

LXVI.— Vis-a-vis  with  Two  Monks 538 

LXVII.— In  the  Blessed  Isles. 542 


TO 


PRINCESS    LOUISE. 


THE  OIE  FAIR  WOMAN. 


CHAPTER  I. 


FROM    LONDON    TO    GENOA. 

"  O  that  the  desert  were  my  dwelling-place, 
With  one  fair  spirit  for  my  minister." — BYRON. 

"  With  one  fair  woman ;  the  one  red  rose." — BROWNING. 

"  By  the  tideless,  dolorous,  midland  sea,  .  . 
There  shone  one  woman,  and  none  but  she." 
— SWINBURNE. 

"  Others  for  others,  but  she  was  mine — 
The  one  (air  woman  beneath  the  sun." 
—HAT. 

IVE  !  Live  with  all  your  might 
in  the  full  strong  light  of  day, 
for  the  season  of  sleep  and  of 
dreams  comes  soon  enough  to 
us  all.  Successful  men  live  in 
the  age  in  which  they  are  born. 
Great  men  live  in  advance  of 
it.  Poets  and  painters  belong 
to  no  age.  They  fit  in  nowhere 
on  top  of  the  earth.  They  are 
more  out  of  place  than  the 
other  great  men  in  the  world's 
gallery  of  statuary.  Strange, 
restless,  and  imhappy  men,  they 
hasten  on  through  life,  forgetting  that  the 
end  of  the  road  is  but  a  grave.  But  the  gods 
love  them ;  and  this  must  be  their  consolation,  for  certainly 
they  have  little  else.  Yet  men  who  conquer  worlds  do 
not  move  by  inches.  This  young  man,  whom  we  shall  name 


12  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

Murietta,  in  order  that  his  real  name  may  be  concealed,  was 
of  this  restless  and  impetuous  class. 

In  the  year  18 —  the  world  applauded  the  young  artist 
Alpho  Murietta,  and  pronounced  him  a  genius  of  the  very 
highest  order. 

As  the  world  is  nearly  always  wrong,  it  is  safe  to  say  that 
in  this  case  it  was  utterly  so.  In  justice  to  the  young  artist, 
who  was  being  borne  as  it  were  on  the  shoulders  of  his 
seniors,  and  held  up  to  the  full  gaze  of  the  great,  I  may  say 
that  he  himself  half  suspected  that  the  world  was  mistaken. 
Yet  he  was  not  so  terribly  displeased  after  all  at  the  mistake. 

In  the  year  18 —  the  world  denounced  this  same  young  ar 
tist,  Alpho  Murietta,  as  an  impostor,  a  libertine,  and  a  fraud 
of  the  very  worst  stamp. 

As  the  world  is  nearly  always  wrong,  perhaps  it  was  mis 
taken  again.  As  for  young  Murietta,  he  was  this  time  him 
self  perfectly  certain  that  the  world  was  mistaken.  But  this 
time  he  was  displeased  and  troxibled  too.  And  sad  as  it  was, 
and  certain  as  he  was  in  this  conviction,  in  truth  I  must  say 
that  this  time  he  stood  almost  alone  in  his  belief. 

His  had  been  an  eventful  story,  which  we  may  come  upon 
further  on.  Boy  as  he  was,  he  was  scarred  all  over  by  battle. 
He  had  lived  the  life  of  a  man  in  his  boyhood,  and  his  heart 
lay  broken  in  bits  and  scattered  like  clay  all  over  the  world 
where  he  had  wandered.  With  all  that,  he  had  never  yet 
met  the  one  great  woman  of  his  life,  the  one  whom  somehow 
he  felt  all  the  time  was  standing  somewhere  in  the  world  by 
his  path  of  life,  waiting  till  he  should  come  that  way. 

Woman — full,  complete,  and  perfect  woman — was  to  him 
the  whole  wide  world.  He  would  follow  her,  worship  afar 
off,  wait  and  watch  if  by  some  chance  he  might  be  able  to  do 
her  service.  His  soul  and  sense  of  duty  to  woman  was  that 
of  a  knight  of  old.  Alpho  Murietta  was  born  out  of  his  time. 
Amid  the  revolutions  of  his  land,  the  wild  South- West,  he 
had  grown  up  in  the  field  and  camp  almost  without  culture, 


From  London  to   Genoa.  13 

and  was  what  the  world,  with  its  usual  felicity  for  fitting  a 
man  in  his  proper  niche,  was  very  happy  to  call  a  half  savage. 

The  young  new-risen  star  was  rough  in  his  appearance  and 
blunt  in  expression,  but  his  voice  was  low  and  soft,  his  man 
ner  gentle,  engaging,  almost  childlike,  certainly  timid,  shrink 
ing,  shy  of  the  gaze  and  attention  of  men.  He  stood  alone, 
mantled  in  the  atmosphere  of  his  strange  individuality. 

A  soldier  by  chance  and  fortune,  yet  his  figure  was  lithe 
and  light  as  that  of  a  woman.  His  was  a  striking  face  for 
the  age.  Men  were  always  saying,  <l  Why,  I  have  seen  that 
face  before!  "  In  fact  it  was  a  face  that  men  would  paint, 
would  see  without  knowing  it.  Artist  as  he  was  by  nature, 
his  face,  half  hidden  in  blonde  and  abundant  hair  that  hung 
to  the  shoulders,  was  such  a  face  as  painters  would  paint  and 
men  would  buy  and  hang  on  their  walls,  and  yet  know  not 
why.  And  still  it  was  not  beautiful,  not  by  any  manner  of 
means.  It  was  a  sympathetic  face,  full  of  affection  and  full 
of  truth,  of  resolution,  self-will,  defiance,  doubt.  That  is, 
sometimes. 

Faces  change  so.  Let  a  face  be  backed  by  blood  and  met 
tle,  let  the  soul  be  hallowed  by  experience,  and  made  mellow 
as  a  ploughed  field  by  furrows  that  have  torn  it  up,  let  it  be 
made  charitable  of  the  sins  of  others  by  a  sense  of  its  own  sins, 
— and  you  have  a  face  that  will  wear  as  many  changes  ot 
expression  as  the  wind  and  weather. 

This  man  had  come  upon  his  art  by  instinct.  He  had 
fancied,  or  perhaps  really  seen,  things  of  beauty ;  he  knew 
they  were  there  hiding  back  behind  his  canvas,  that  some 
day  they  would  come  out  from  there,  stand  before  him,  droop, 
lean,  reach,  live,  look  him  in  the  face,  and  talk  back  to  him 
and  answer  the  solitude  of  his  soul.  In  his  solitary  hours  he 
had  seen  them,  distant,  dim,  faint,  and  far  away.  They 
seemed  to  be  afraid  to  draw  near. 

By  devotion,  self-denial,  adoration,  love  for  the  beautiful, 
and  a  sincere  and  simple  life,  he  made  himself  familiar  with 


14  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

their  ways,  and  then  they  came,  and  he  made  them  his  friends 
forever. 

With  all  his  love  for  woman,  he  had  never  yet  seen  the  one 
certain  destiny  of  his  life.  Yet  he  knew  she  lived.  He 
knew  perfectly  well  that  she  would  come,  as  the  figures  and 
faces  of  beauty  had  come  on  his  canvas.  And  he  knew  he 
should  recognize  her  when  she  came.  He  pictured  her  a 
sad  and  silent  woman,  dreamy,  still,  mysterious ;  strong, 
moving  a  world,  yet  scarce  moving  a  hand,  a  central  figure,  a 
sun  with  a  thousand  stars  that  moved  as  she  moved,  that 
knew  no  light  but  hers. 

The  first  year,  the  one  and  only  year,  of  his  glory  was 
gone.  The  young  artist  was  no  more  a  wonder.  People 
began  to  measure  their  praise,  to  doubt,  to  damn  with  a 
definition  of  qualities.  Still  no  man,  however  willing  some 
were,  had  yet  proclaimed  against  him.  Soon  made,  soon 
marred.  All  sudden  growths,  as  a  rule,  are  the  story  of 
Jonah's  gourd. 

At  last,  without  design,  without  desiring  such  a  thing  now, 
at  a  time  in  fact  when  he  almost  wished  his  dream  of  her  to 
be  and  remain  forever  but  a  dream  and  fancy,  he  met  this 
One  Fair  Woman  face  to  face  in  the  highest  circles  in  aristo 
cratic  London. 

He  had  heard  her  name  without  knowing  it  or  caring  for 
it.  He  had  been  dreaming  all  day,  all  the  evening,  was 
dreaming  still.  He  did  not  see  her  till  he  stood  before  her 
in  the  gorgeous  saloon,  splendid  with  all  the  magnificence 
of  modern  art  and  civilization,  and  set  about  by  beautiful 
women  and  noble  men,  and  she  the  one  chief  centre  stone  in 
the  shining  casket. 

Then  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  hers,  to  her  eyes,  dark  and  deep 
and  thoughtful,  and  full  of  fire.  Their  light  startled  him. 
He  awoke  from  his  dream,  shrunk  back  embarrassed,  stam 
mered  some  strange  words  that  he  himself  did  not  understand, 
and  in  the  whirl  and  movement  of  the  company  took  refuge 


From  London  to   Genoa.  15 

at  once,  and  was  perhaps  at  once  forgotten  by  this  wonderful 
woman.  At  least  she  betrayed  no  consciousness,  no  emotion, 
no  interest  whatever. 

Possibly  she  had  not  heard  his  name.  Possibly  she  had 
heard  too  much  of  it.  Possibly  she,  too,  had  been  dreaming 
like  himself  that  night,  and  did  not  waken  at  all.  All  these 
and  a  thousand  other  possibilities  poured  through  the  young 
man's  brain  from  that  day  forth.  He  did  not  dare  to  see 
her  again.  Yet  dreaming  or  awake  he  saw  nothing  but  her, 
heard  no  sound  but  her  voice,  a  voice  that  was  so  full  of 
soul,  of  song,  of  sympathy,  so  refreshing,  soft,  and  mellow  ; 
like  the  fountain  of  Trevi. 

Murietta,  as  I  have  said,  knew  certainly  that  he  would  one 
day  meet  this  woman.  Knowing  this  by  some  sort  of  intui 
tion,  a  sort  of  revelation  that  belongs  to  certain  natures 
cursed  or  blessed  with  intense  sensibility,  he  had  been  con 
tent  to  wait,  to  go  on  silently  and  in  a  satisfied  sort  of  way 
with  his  work,  without  once  considering  what  he  should  do 
when  the  time  came. 

No  doubt  if  he  had  been  asked,  or  if  he  had  asked  himself, 
he  would  have  replied  confidently  that  he  should  at  once 
address  her,  tell  her  the  truth  briefly,  candidly,  frank  and 
bold  as  a  soldier,  and  possess  her. 

As  it  was,  however,  he  did  not  address  her  at  all.  He  ran 
away.  He  began  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  to  fear.  He 
could  not  exactly  tell  what  it  was  that  he  feared  ;  but  he  felt 
himself  tremble  in  the  presence  of  man,  woman,  alone,  in 
crowds,  and  all  the  time  impressed  with  the  fear  that  some 
thing  dreadful  was  about  to  happen.  Then  troubles  began 
to  pour  in  upon  him  from  a  hundred  quarters.  He  had  done 
nothing  at  all  but  hide  himself  away  and  try  all  the  time  to 
get  that  one  face  from  between  him  and  his  old  loves  and 
beautiful  princesses  on  the  canvas.  It  was  impossible.  He 
now  was  miserable  beyond  expression.  Men  began  to  note 
his  change  of  manner  and  of  mind.  His  enemies  were  de- 


1 6  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

lighted ;  his  few,  very  few  friends  shook  their  heads  and  left 
him  nearly  alone. 

This  could  not  go  on  with  a  mind  like  his.  One  day  in 
a  mood  of  desperation  he  resolved  to  ask  who  she  was. 
Strange  enough,  he  had  not  dared  mention  her  name  to  any 
one  since  that  night.  When  at  last,  pale,  excited,  trembling, 
he  found  the  man  who  could  tell  him  what  he  sought  to  learn 
of  her,  he  found  his  tongue  utterly  tied  and  his  mouth  dry  as 
if  he  had  had  a  fever.  He  wanted  to  take  this  man  by  the 
collar  and  lead  him  into  a  dark  place  and  turn  his  face  to  the 
wall,  and  make  him  tell  him  there,  with  his  eyes  held  down 
and  in  a  voice  that  only  he  could  hear,  who  she  was,  and 
what  her  name  and  history. 

That,  I  should  say,  is  love — love  deep,  self-denying,  yet 
uncontrolled. 

To  his  relief,  the  man  led  up  to  the  subject  of  his  heart, 
and  told  him  all  about  her  while  he  stood  by  the  fire  in  early 
autumn,  and  looked  out  through  the  window  at  a  man  with  a 
tray  on  his  head  and  a  little  bell  in  his  hand  hawking  his  wares. 

The  tale  was  soon  told,  or  at  least  so  much  as  the  man 
chose  to  relate,  and  the  artist  still  stood  looking  out  of  the 
window.  The  friend  set  down  his  glass  and  laid  his  hand  on 
his  shoulder.  He  started. 

"  I  was  looking  at  the  man  with  the  tray  and  bell.  Yery 
singular  ;  very  pretty  ;  'twould  make  a  picture." 

The  friend  stooped  a  little  and  looked  through  the  window ; 
but  no  man  with  a  tray  was'to  be  seen.  In  fact  he  had  gone 
on  half  an  hour  before.  But  to  the  artist  he  was  still  there, 
ringing  his  little  brass  bell  up  in  his  own  right  ear,  as  if  to 
be  certain  he  made  a  great  noise  to  attract  the  little  people  to 
buy  his  homely  wares. 

The  men  looked  each  other  in  the  face.  The  artist  was 
pale  and  embarrassed. 

"  You  are  ill.  You  must  stop  work.  Do  you  know  what 
your  friends  say  ?  " 


From  London  to   Genoa.  17 

"  My  friends  ?  " 

"  Ay,  your  friends — the  world." 

"  No." 

«  Shall  I  tell  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes,  since  we  had  is  well  hear  one  falsehood  as 
another." 

"  But  it  will  offend  you." 

"  I  have  passed  that  phase." 

"  I  fear  it  will  annoy  you." 

"  Nonsense.  You  annoy  me  by  your  insinuations.  Speak 
plain." 

"  Well  then,  my  dear  fellow,  you  must  stop  work." 

"  Is  that  what  the  world  says  ?  " 

"  Well,  no,  not  exactly,  but " 

«  But,  but,  but !  " 

The  artist  drew  up  his  hands  and  wrung  them  nervously  as 
he  looked  at  his  so-called  friend. 

"But— but!     Well?" 

"  They  say  you — you — that  you  are  ill — and " 

"  And — and  ?  "  This  time  the  hand  had  clutched  the  shoul 
der.  They  shook  the  man,  and  they  shook  these  words  from 
out  between  his  chattering  teeth, 

"  And  that  you — you — are  insane  !  " 

The  artist  shook  off  his  friend  and  found  his  way  into  the 
street. 

Let  a  man  of  Marietta's  temperament  and  experience,  not 
half  at  peace  with  the  world,  in  fact  half  at  war  with  it,  retire, 
retreat  within  himself,  and  love — love  blindly  and  without 
any  definite  hope — let  him  be  pinched  by  poverty,  nettled  by 
pride,  and  then,  held  up  to  reproach  without  reason,  and  he 
will  come  to  say  that  either  the  world  is  mad,  or  he  himself 
is  mad. 

The  subject  was  not  new  to  him  or  to  his  mind  at  all.  As 
he  hastily  left  his  friend's  house  that  day,  he  was  not  wonder 
ing  whether  or  not  he  was  mad,  but  whether  or  not  she  had 


1 8  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

heard  this  rumor.  He  walked  a  long  way  that  day,  and 
at  last  settled  it  clearly  in  his  mind  that  all  he  wanted  was 
the  companionship  of  fresh  and  original  minds ;  minds  that 
had  point  and  place  to  lay  hold  of,  minds  that  lifted,  and  that 
you  could  ascend  with  as  ascending  a  wooded  and  watered 
mountain,  and  be  rejoiced  and  refreshed. 

That  night  the  old  nervousness  came  back.  He  did  not 
close  his  eyes. 

"  I  have  enemies,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  What  if  these 
enemies  take  it  into  their  heads  to  declare  that  I  am  insane  ? 
I  do  not  fit  into  the  life  and  habits  of  this  land.  My  thoughts, 
my  actions  are  my  own.  What  could  I  answer  ?  My  pro- 
foundest  answer  would  be  taken  as  a  madman's  theory.  I 
should  go  wild.  They  would  expect  me  to  act,  to  answer  as  a 
fool.  I  cannot.  I  do  not  know  how." 

A  keen,  thin,  mettled  edge  was  that  of  Murietta's  nature. 
In  fact  it  is  the  keenest  edge  and  the  highest  mettle  and  the 
most  subtle  mind  that  breaks  most  suddenly. 

He  shut  himself  up  now,  and  would  see  no  one.  He  would 
not  go  abroad.  He  would  not  work  nor  go  out,  night  or 
day,  and  men  began  to  shake  their  heads. 

One  day  he  tied  a  great  bull-dog  to  the  door.  The  old 
woman  and  old  man  who  kept  this  house  held  a  council. 

The  next  day  two  physicians  came,  and  with  them  a  friend, 
or  at  least  a  fellow-artist.  The  doctors  surveyed  the  curious 
figures  on  the  wall,  noted  the  nervous  and  restless  man  before 
them,  and  began  to  ask  questions,  while  the  friend  drew 
himself  back  into  the  corner. 

Murietta  suddenly  grew  pale.  His  impatience  left  him, 
and  his  eyes  grew  bright  as  fire.  He  looked  up  towards  the 
wall,  where  hung  two  pistols. 

He  put  his  hand  up  against  the  wall,  close  to  the  butt  of  a 
pistol,  as  if  by  chance.  Then  leaning  carelessly  and  lifting 
one  foot  up  and  resting  the  toe  on  the  carpet,  began : 

"  You  will  ask  no  more  questions.     I  will  answer  nothing 


From  London  to  Genoa.  19 

further  now.  If  you  choose  you  can  come  here  to-morrow 
at  precisely  twelve.  Now  you  will  go." 

The  men  looked  at  each  other,  and  one  began  to  speak. 

A  nervous  hand  on  the  wall  clutched  a  pistol. 

"  Now  you  will  go." 

The  artist  had  already  gone.  The  two  physicians  started 
back,  stepped  light  and  quick,  and  shot  across  the  threshold. 

Murietta  rang  the  bell. 

The  old  woman  came. 

"  I  am  going  out  to  see  some  friends — some  friends.  1 
shall  not  come  back  to-night.  If  those  three  men  call  here 
to-morrow  at  twelve,  and  I  am  not  here,  you  can  tell  them 
that  if  they  like  to  wait  till  I  return,  they  are  perfectly  wel 
come  to  do  so." 

The  old  landlady  adjusted  her  cap  as  all  landladies  do  who 
are  not  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  state  of  affairs,  and  jerked 
her  head,  which  is  a  landlady's  bow,  and  disappeared. 

Murietta  stood  a  moment  at  the  gate  of  his  lodgings,  in  the 
London  suburb,  and  asked  himself  what  course  he  should 
take.  A  cab  jolted  by.  The  artist  lifted  his  cane.  The 
cabman,  who  like  all  good  cabmen  seemed  to  have  eyes  in 
his  back,  jerked  up  as  short  as  if  the  cane  had  been  a  rein 
in  his  teeth,  and  wheeling  round  took  in  the  man,  shut  up 
his  trap  as  if  it  had  caught  something  in  it,  and  then  without 
a  word  went  jolting  on  down  the  street. 

A  hand  pushed  up  and  opened  a  trap-door  in  the  roof  of 
the  cab. 

"  Cabman  ;  India  Docks." 

"  Eight." 

The  Italian  flag  was  fluttering  from  the  masthead  of  a  ship 
steaming  as  if  just  about  to  start.  It  bore  the  word 
"  Genoa." 

"  Genoa  !  Genoa?  why  not?  That  is  in  Italy.  And  she 
is  in  Italy." 

Down  the  stormy  channel,  around  the  broken  Gates  of 


20  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

Hercules,  and  up  the  choppy,  ugly  Mediterranean,  and  they 
drew  in  upon  the  isolated  city  of  palaces. 

At  his  hotel  the  good  consul  sought  Murietta  out ;  but  he 
was  still  sad  and  thoughtful. 

"  You  will  dine  with  me  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  You  will  at  least  call  and  spend  an  hour — see  my  family." 

"  No,  no,  no.     I  am  not  in  a  mood  to  see  happy  people." 

Then  suddenly  turning  to  the  consul  after  a  moment's 
silence — 

"  Consul,  do  me  a  favor." 

"  With  pleasure,  if  it  is  in  my  power." 

"  Then  take  me  to  see  those  who  are  unhappy,  the  miser 
able  ! " 

The  consul  hesitated. 

"  I  am  miserable  to-day  ;  take  me  among  my  kind  to-day ! 
To-morrow  I  shall  be  more  cheerful." 

They  passed  up  the  narrow  crowded  streets  with  mighty 
marble  palaces  on  either  hand,  up  past  many  fountains,  up 
many  steps,  under  many  arches,  then  up  a  spiral  stairway  of 
marble,  till  suddenly  they  stood  before  the  Jardin  Nero  with 
its  tropical  flowers,  its  fountains,  its  birds,  its  beasts,  and  its 
thousand  happy  children  and  beautiful  women. 

The  consul  turned  his  back  to  this,  and  led  across  the  shady 
walk  to  the  beautiful  public  drive,  with  its  double  rows  of 
trees,  its  fountains,  its  bands  of  music,  and  its  whirl  of  car 
riages  that  follow  one  another  around  and  around  on  this 
delightful  drive  overlooking  the  sea,  that  seems  to  have  been 
fashioned  from  a  half-levelled  mountain. 

"  There !  " 

"  Folly,  folly  !  I  asked  for  the  unhappy.  You  bring  me 
to  this  whirl  of  gayety — this  giddiness  of  delight !  " 

"  You  asked  for  the  miserable.  Here  they  are  !  There  they 
sit  in  those  carriages !  Thei-e  are  the  truly  unhappy  !  and 
so  it  is  the  wide  world  over." 


From  London  to   Genoa.  21 

Murietta  grasped  Ms  hand.  He  looked  him  in  the  face  as 
if  he  would  look  him  through. 

"  You  have  uttered  a  great  truth.  I  knew  it  before,  I  felt 
it  before,  but  could  not  say." 

Around  and  around  the  carriages  whirled,  two  and  two, 
and  then  a  double  line  meeting  till  they  drove  four  deep,  and 
the  horses  took  in  the  spirit  of  the  splendid  sunset  scene,  and 
bent  their  necks  and  tossed  their  manes  and  stepped  as  if  they 
scarcely  touched  the  ground.  A  group  of  peasants  in  gay  and 
beautiful  dress,  with  their  glorious  hair  about  their  shoulders, 
danced  below  an  acacia  tree  in  the  sprinkle  of  the  fountain, 
while  officers  in  splendid  uniforms  moved  leisurely  up  and 
down  and  bowed  to  the  black-eyed  women  seated  here  and 
there  in  twos  and  threes,  and  the  black-e}red  women  smiled 
and  blushed  in  return ;  and  all  the  time  the  fountains  plashed 
and  played  in  the  gold  of  the  sloping  sun,  while  the  bands 
played  martial  airs  and  then  low  and  tender  melodies. 

The  carriages  were  largely  those  of  foreigners.  They  were 
filled  with  beautiful  women  and  men  who  certainly  wore  a 
look  of  more  care  than  was  consistent  with  the  scene.  There 
was  a  fearful  rivalry  between  the  tenants  of  many  of  these 
splendid  equipages. 

This  one  had  the  best  horses  in  Genoa,  but  that  one  had  a 
carriage  that  shone  with  gold  and  silver ;  then  this  carriage 
bore  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world,  while  that  one 
claimed  a  special  gloiy  because  it  bore  the  Crown  Prince  of 
Italy. 


CHAPTER  II. 


THE    LADY    IN    PINK. 


URIETTA  stood  there  looking 
at,  and  yet  not  half  beholding 
the  scene  before  him.  He  was 
devouring  the  thought  that  the 
consul  had  given  him,  as  if  his 
soul  had  been  hungry.  He 
was  turning  it  over,  testing  it, 
trying  to  prove  that  it  was 
false,  and  yet  at  every  ttirn  of 
the  gay  equipages  finding  evi 
dence  of  its  truth. 

From  the  first  there  was  one  carriage 
that  had  a  special  attraction  for  him. 
A  little  boy,  with  long  light  hair  like 
gold  and  sunshine  woven  together,  sat 
on  a  front  seat  dressed  in  blue  velvet, 
and  looking  down  at  the  happy  peasant 
children  as  if  he  would  like  to  join  them  and  be  happy  too. 

Beside  this  boy  sat  or  lounged  a  great  six-foot  seaman- 
looking  fellow  in  a  white  vest,  pea-jacket,  and  sailor  hat, 
which  he  was  constantly  lifting,  and  sometimes  to  people  who 
did  not  respond.  There  was  a  swagger  in  his  air  that  spoke  as 
plain  as  words  could  speak  that  his  place  and  position  in  the 
world,  whatever  it  was,  was  about  as  unsteady  as  the  deck 
of  a  ship  in  a  storm.  Yet  he  had  a  powerful  face, — power 
ful  for  wickedness.  He  certainly  had  a  chin  like  Dante. 


The  Lady  in  Pink.  23 

He  as  certainly  had  an  eye  like  the  devil.  One  hand  was 
constantly  employed  in  lifting  his  hat ;  the  other  kept  a  sort 
of  reach  and  regard  for  the  little  boy  at  his  side. 

As  this  carriage  whirled  past,  the  consul  lifted  his  hat  to 
the  very  beautiful  blonde  lady  dressed  all  in  soft  shades  of 
pink  and  rose,  who  sat  with  her  husband  on  the  back  seat ; 
and  the  big  man  with  the  big  chin  lifted  his  hat  in  return  and 
bowed  twice  to  the  consul. 

The  beautiful  lady  smiled  with  an  expression  of  sadness 
that  was  even  painful,  but  only  smiled.  The  husband,  a 
handsome,  graceful,  Italian  gentleman,  with  a  small  hand  and 
a  small  weak  nose,  and  a  small  head  which  was  getting  bald, 
lifted  his  hat  also,  with  that  ease  and  composure  which  shows 
at  least  the  gentleman  bred  and  born. 

"  Beautiful !  "  said  the  consul. 

"  Sad  !  "  sighed  the  artist. 

The  two  walked  on  together. 

But  Murietta  could  not  forget  that  face.  It  was  the  face 
of  a  child.  The  eyes  were  large  and  liquid,  yet  soft  and 
timid  as  those  of  a  baby.  Her  complexion  was  rose  and  ala 
baster.  She  seemed  to  blush  to  her  shoulders  as  she  breathed. 
With  her  pure  pitiful  face,  sad  and  sweet  and  lonesome,  with 
its  touch  of  tenderness  for  her  little  boy  with  hair  so  like 
her  own,  she  to  Murietta  was  by  far  the  most  beautiful  of 
all  the  beautiful  women  of  Genoa. 

"  Who  are  they  ?  " 

"  It's  a  sad  story." 

"  I  knew  it  was  sad.  Let  me  imagine  it.  It  will  give  me 
food  for  to-night  whilst  prowling  through  the  silent  city  " 

The  sun  had  set  on  Genoa.  The  pretty  dancers  had  disap 
peared,  the  bands  had  broken  in  pieces,  and  here  and  there  a 
man  with  a  great  brass  instrument  coiled  about  him,  stood 
bantering,  cap  in  hand,  with  some  fair  woman. 

The  two  men  were  leaving  the  garden  as  the  carriage  with 
the  sad  pretty  face  above  the  soft  rose  robes  was  passing. 


24  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

The  consul  bowed.  The  fair  woman  half  turned  her  head  to 
the  man  beside  her,  and  he  reached  his  arm  and  touched  the 
footman.  The  footman  turned  his  head  to  the  coachman, 
and  the  carriage  stopped. 

The  consul  stepped  up  towards  the  carriage  door,  shook 
hands  with  the  gentleman,  and  then  took  the  extended  hand 
of  the  big  man  with  the  big  chin,  while  the  little  boy  only 
looked  down  from  the  carriage  at  the  doves  that  strutted 
about  and  pecked  in  the  dust  under  the  wheels  and  the 
horses'  feet. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  consul,"  said  the  big  man  with  the  big 
chin  as  he  clutched  the  hand  in  his.  "  Glad  to  see  you," 
continued  the  deep  bass  voice.  "  I  am  a  man  who  carries 
his  heart  in  his  hand,  you  know.  A  rough  but  honest  sailor. 
Glad  to  see  you.  looking  so  well,  sir." 

The  lady  looked  in  the  consul's  face  with  her  great  sad 
child's  eyes,  so  full  of  wonder  all  the  time,  and  then  she 
looked  at  his  companion,  who  had  held  back  as  if  to  escape 
an  introduction. 

"My  friend  Murietta — the  Countess  Edna." 

The  lady  smiled  sadly,  sighed  as  if  from  habit,  and  bowed 
as  the  artist  lifted  his  hat  and  held  it  poised  in  the  air. 
Then  he  shook  hands  with  the  gentleman  at  her  side  who  was 
introduced  as  "  Count  Edna,"  and  was  about  to  withdraw. 

"You  are  not  of  the  family  of  Alpho  Murietta?  " 

The  artist  blushed  and  bowed  in  the  affirmative. 

The  consul  said  something  in  a  half  whisper,  and  then  the 
lady  with  an  expression  of  interest  again  reached  her  hand. 
The  gentleman  at  her  side  was  over  civil ;  and,  while  the 
great  captain  by  the  little  boy,  who  had  just  been  introduced, 
was  declaring  that  he  was  a  man  who  carried  his  heart  in  his 
hand  and  was  only  a  rough  but  honest  sailor,  the  polite  gen 
darme  came  with  his  finger  to  his  cap,  passed  up  the  carriage 
from  blocking  the  way,  and  the  two  parties  were  separated. 


CHAPTER  III. 


IN   THE    CITY   OF   PALACES. 


ATE  picks  out  and  sets  the  un 
happy  up  in  a  carriage  for  the 
poor  but  content  to  see  them.  The 
consul  was  quite  right.  But  this 
truth  is  not  so  apparent  in  Italy 
or  France  as  in  England. 

In  the  matchless  and   magnifi 
cent  turnouts,  gay  with  color  and 
gorgeous  trappings,  pouring  down 
the   avenues   of  wood   that   echo 
with  nnisic,  rounding   the  corners  of  watered 
ways   that  wind     in     terraces    set  with  walls 
of  roses,  hung  above  the  sea,  you  have  much 
to  look  upon  besides  the  tired  masks  of  flesh 
and   blood   that   but   half  hide  the  soul  with 
its  sea  of  troubles. 

In  England,  in  the  great  drive  of  Hyde  Park,  you  have 
little  to  behold  but  the  faces  there.  Such  sad  faces  !  The 
most  mournful  sight  to  me  is  that  of  an  Englishman  driving 
in  Hyde  Park  for  pleasure. 

He  sits  as  if  he  was  bolstered  up  in  bed,  and  his  physician 
was  feeling  his  pulse.  He  is  so  stiff  that  you  might  imagine 
him  chiselled  from  some  sort  of  very  ugly  stone,  hat  and  all. 
You  had  almost  as  well  expect  to  see  a  Grenadier  guardsman 
lift  his  bfe-^rskin  cap  as  to  see  an  Englishman's  hat  move  from 
his  head,  unless  a  royal  personage  appears,  while  he  takes  this 
2 


26  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

mournful  round  in  the  great  ride  of  the  kingdom.  The 
marble  head  of  Julius  Caesar  is  about  as  likely  to  fall  from 
the  shoulders  of  the  bust  in  the  British  Museum,  as  is  the 
head  of  an  Englishman  to  turn  to  the  right  or  the  left  as  he 
sits  there,  holding  his  hands  so  stiffly,  looking  so  stern,  so 
pitiful,  as  if  he  was  expecting  every  moment  to  hear  that 
melancholy  physician  say  that  he  must  die  to-morrow. 

The  poor  stand  on  the  outside,  fifty  deep,  and  look  on  in. 
silence  at  this  pageant  of  black  solemnity.  All  London  is 
there  in  the  season.  The  carriages  are  at  least  four  deep. 
They  are  packed  in  like  sardines  ;  there  is  not  room  enough 
left  for  a  baby-cart.  They  move  at  one  and  the  same  mourn 
ful  pace  the  whole  drive  round.  They  look  in  the  same 
direction ;  they  wear  the  same  clothes,  the  same  sad,  woe-be- 
gone,  and  melancholy  look,  the  same  doleful,  doomed  expres 
sion  the  whole  drive  through — the  indescribable  expression 
of  the  damned. 

Once  upon  a  time  a  careless  little  country  girl,  full  of  sun 
shine  and  good  health,  came  to  town  in  an  open  wagon  with 
her  parents.  It  was  her  first  sight  of  London  ;  and  she  stood 
up  by  the  side  of  her  red-faced,  good-natured  mother,  clap 
ping  her  little  red  hands  and  shouting  out  her  delight  at 
whatever  took  her  fancy. 

The  little  party  struck  Hyde  Park  near  the  great  Marble 
Arch  about  three  in  the  afternoon  in  the  full  blossom  of  a 
London  May. 

The  child  looked  in,  tiptoed  up,  looked  again — and  then 
she  made  it  out  in  a  moment.  She  knew  perfectly  well  what 
it  was  now.  She  tiptoed  up  again,  clapped  her  hands  in  a 
sweet  shy  tattoo,  shook  back  her  curls  and  called  out, — 

"  Oh,  mamma,  mamma !  see,  mamma,  what  a  pretty, 
pretty  funeral !  " 

What  a  light,  airy,  fairy-like  drive  is  this  little  round  be 
tween  the  rows  of  acacia  and  locust  trees  of  Genoa  !  It  lies 
there  lifted  above  the  sea,  above  the  city.  It  is  in  the  heart 


In  the  City  of  Palaces.  27 

of  the  old  battle-beaten  town,  and  one  might  well  understand 
that  on  this  little  half  levelled  mountain's  summit,  men  first 
sat  down  and  began  to  build  as  they  did  on  the  Palatine 
Hill. 

You  know  perfectly  well,  as  you  stand  there — or  drive  in 
the  cool  shadow  of  the  trees,  sprinkled  by  the  fountains  and 
fanned  by  winds  from  the  sea — that  here  stood  fortress  and 
battlement,  and  that  there,  up  that  forty-foot  wall  to  the  left, 
the  barbarian,  clad  in  hairy  skins,  climbed  with  his  sword  in 
his  teeth,  was  beaten  back,  climbed  again  and  again,  till  the 
rocks  were  too  slippery  with  blood  to  hold  his  fingers.  You 
are  certain  that  you  stand  on  the  heart,  the  core  and  key  of 
Genoa. 

Stand  here  at  noon  in  the  cool  of  the  trees,  while  the 
Italian  lies  flat  on  his  back,  and  sound  asleep,  and  thick  on 
the  ground  as  the  dead  after  battle,  all  around  you  in  the 
shade  of  trees,  of  fountains,  of  walls,  of  benches — and  look 
ing  out  upon  the  sea,  you  can  count  a  hundred  sails.  They, 
too,  seem  to  be  asleep.  In  a  little  time,  when  the  sun  has 
rounded  the  meridian,  your  Italian  will  awaken.  He  will 
half  rise,  settle  back  on  his  elbow,  and  half  awake,  half 
asleep,  will  sing  an  opera  with  a  dozen  or  two  in  chorus,  and 
never  miss  a  note. 

Happy,  happy  fellows !  They  are  so  perfectly  happy,  so 
careless,  that  you  too  must  take  in  some  of  this  happiness  in 
Italy,  if  you  live  there,  in  spite  of  yourself. 

To  your  left,  on  a  hill  across  a  dried  river  and  a  dusty 
valley,  with  lonesome  and  brown  fig-trees,  you  see  Byron's 
house,  which  he  named  Paradise  ;  and  not  far  away  is  the 
half  year's  residence  of  Charles  Dickens,  which  he  named 
the  Pink  Jail.  A  little  further  to  your  left,  and  two  miles 
up  this  dried-up  river — the  bed  of  which  is  spread  with 
clothes  laid  out  to  dry — is  the  beautiful  Campo  Santo,  the 
fairest  and  airiest  churchyard  in  all  the  civilized  world. 

Around  your  back  bends  the  great  wall  of  Genoa.     It  is 


28  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

so  high,  where  it  climbs  over  the  spiirs  of  the  Apennines, 
that  it  is  occasionally  in  some  place  hidden  in  the  clouds. 
Miles  and  miles  back  and  np,  and  on  this  wall  is  a  strange,  a 
dark-browed  and  gloomy  building.  A  stranger  walked  that 
way  once,  and  while  yet  nearly  half  a  mile  off  he  heard  howls, 
and  the  clank  of  chains,  and  the  most  doleful  sounds  you  can 
conceive.  He  went  up  under  the  walls  of  this  place,  and 
asked  what  it  meant. 

This  was  the  great  prison  of  Genoa,  and  some  miserable 
wretches  were  being  flogged. 

The  howling  ceased  ;  but  the  rattling  chains  kept  rattling 
more  than  before ;  and  the  men  told  him  the  prisoners  were 
then  being  fed. 

Before  you,  or  a  little  to  the  left,  the  sea  makes  a  diver 
sion,  and  dim  and  distant  away  across  the  bay  you  see — if 
you  have  the  eye  of  a  mountaineer — a  shore  that  is  sacred 
to  the  ashes  of  Shelley. 

Under  your  feet,  or  around  the  corner  of  the  bay  a  mile 
or  two,  and  standing  almost  in  the  water,  is  a  thin,  blue 
marble  shaft  that  means  a  whole  volume  of  history.  There 
it  was  that  Garibaldi  first  embarked  with  his  red-shirted 
band  for  the  farther  Sicily. 

On  that  high  bluff  before  you,  around  which  the  sea  always 
sweeps  and  swings  in  an  unsatisfied  sort  of  a  way,  stands  a 
church  with  a  story  worth  ten  times  the  price  the  old  man  at 
the  door  will  ask  for  telling  it. 

,  Yonder,  where  no  woman's  feet  may  enter,  lie  the  bones 
of  John  the  Baptist,  and  you  fall  to  wondering,  as  the  good 
priests  show  you  through  the  chapel,  whatever  in  the  world 
John  the  Baptist  had  done  that  no  woman  is  permitted  to 
kneel  at  his  tomb  or  water  the  place  with  her  tears.  You 
find  it  the  gloomiest  place  on  earth,  and  your  only  prayer, 
as  you  turn  to  go  away,  is  that  you  may  not  be  laid  to  rest 
in  a  place  that  is  never  made  fair  with  the  presence  of  woman. 

Yonder  in  a  church,  guarded  and  kept  as  the  most  sacred 


In  the   City  of  Palaces.  29 

relic  of  all  that  lias  yet  been  brought  from  Jerusalem,  is  the 
Holy  Grail,  which  but  to  see  is  health  and  happiness  for  life. 
Yet,  consistent  enough  with  all  this  virtue,  it  is  to  be  beheld 
but  once  in  all  the  year. 

A  little  further  to  your  right,  and  down  there  where  the 
steamboats  whistle  around  a  granite  qiiay  that  smells  all  the 
time  of  paraffin  and  fish,  and  looking  straight  down  into 
the  railroad  depot,  stands  the  monument  of  the  great 
navigator,  mounted  by  a  colossal  figure,  and  bristling 
all  around  with  marble  prows  of  ships,  and  chains,  and 
anchors. 

Yet  amidst  all  this  splendor  Alpho  Murietta  was  moody 
and  disappointed.  Had  he  been  asked  why  he  felt  dis 
appointed,  he  could  not  have  told.  Had  he  asked  himself 
the  question,  he  could  not  have  answered.  His  was  a  mind 
that  moved  by  instinct,  not  by  reason. 

The  truth  is  he  dreaded  going  to  the  Gardens  for  fear  he 
should  meet  the  One  Fair  Woman.  Yet  not  for  fear  he  should 
meet  her.  Quite  the  reverse.  Away  down  deep  in  his  heart, 
deeper  than  any  measure  of  his  could  fathom,  lay  the  fear, 
the  possibility,  that  she  was  not  there.  He  dreaded  to  find 
out  the  truth,  for  fear  that  he  should  find  she  was  not  in 
Genoa.  So  long  as  he  did  not  know  she  was  not  there,  just 
so  long  might  he  go  on,  and  dream,  and  hope,  and  fancy 
that  she  was  there,  within  the  great  walls  of  the  old  monarch 
of  the  Mediterranean. 

This  was  the  summer,  the  brief  bridal  day  of  the  old 
Queen  of  the  Sea.  Surely  she  would  be  there,  the  fairest 
of  the  fair,  the  most  splendid  in  all  that  splendor. 

Never  lover  drew  into  shore  and  swallowed  up  the  crowd 
with  his  eyes  in  search  of  the  one  to  meet  him  there,  with 
more  eagerness  than  did  Murietta  peer  through  this  pageant 
in  search  of  her,  the  moment  he  found  he  had  been  led  to 
the  centre  of  attraction. 

"  Yes,  you  are  right;  the  miserable  meet  here." 


30  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

He  said  this  to  the  consul  with  all  his  heart ;  for  when  a 
man  is  miserable  he  sees  misery  in  all  things. 

They  sauntered  on  together  towards  the  hotel.  Murietta 
threw  away  the  stump  of  his  cigar.  An  old  man  kneeling 
before  a  crucifix,  and  under  a  little  red  lamp  that  burned 
perpetually  at  the  feet  of  a  Virgin  in  blue,  with  a  tin  crown, 
sprang  up  and  caught  it  before  it  fairly  touched  the  ground. 
The  old  man  was  shadowy  as  a  ghost,  and  seemed  very 
wretched  as  he  stood  still  before  them.  Murietta  hastily 
handed  him  a  franc.  The  old  man  threw  himself  at  his 
feet,  and  with  his  face  lifted  devoutly,  and  clasped  hands, 
said  : 

"  Dio  mio  !     I  thought  my  Saviour  was  in  heaven  !  " 

The  artist  handed  him  another  franc,  and  much  affected, 
moved  on. 

"  The  pious  old  man  sees  my  long  hair,  and  takes  me  for 
the  Saviour." 

"  Bah  !  "  said  the  consul,  "he  took  me  for  the  Saviour  for 
about  six  months ;  then  I  quit  giving  him  money,  and  he 
changed  his  mind  !  " 

The  day  was  done,  and  the  consul  and  the  artist  were  walk 
ing  on  together  toward  the  Hotel  Italic. 

"  The  poor  count  has  a  sorry  time  of  it  indeed,"  observed 
the  consul. 

"  And  why?    He  certainly  seems  the  happier  of  the  two." 

"  Ah,  you  do  not  understand.  Well,  there  is  a  history  ! — • 
a  sort  of  story  which  nobody  knows  much  about ;  for  the 
Count  is  so  affectionate,  so  faithful,  and  so  careful  of  his  wife's 
good  fame,  that  he  would  die  rather  than  reveal  it.  Still,  I 
am  partly  in  his  confidence ;  and  he  has  hinted  at  enough 
to  make  at  least  a  dozen  men  miserable." 

"Well,  she  at  least  is  miserable." 

"  She  is  mad  !  "  added  the  consul  emphatically. 

Murietta  put  his  hand  to  his  brow.  He  began  to  won 
der  if  the  consul  had  heard  what  his  enemies  had  said  of 


In  the  City  of  Palaces.  3 1 

him.  He  looked  in  the  face  of  his  friend,  and  drew  a  breath 
of  relief. 

"  And  that  big  man  with  the  little  boy  ?  " 

"  A  sort  of  keeper,  and  a  friend  of  the  good  Count's." 

"  And  are  they  long  in  Genoa  ?" 

"  Oh,  so-so  !  for  the  season  of  a  few  weeks  like  all  travel 
lers.  And  they  too,  like  all  the  English-speaking  people,  for 
the  Countess  is  an  American,  are  at  the  same  hotel  with 
yourself." 

Murietta  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  wished  them  almost 
anywhere  else. 

"  Whatever  she  is,  I  am  not  in  a  mood  to  meet  her.  As 
for  the  Count,  he  is  too  insipid — too  sweet.  I  should  despise 
him.  The  big  man  with  the  big  chin. — Look  here  !  "  As 
Murietta  turned  the  corner  of  the  street,  he  laid  a  finger  of 
his  left  hand  in  his  open  palm  and  said  emphatically,  "  Hon 
est  men  don't  tell  you  that  they  carry  their  hearts  in  their 
hands." 

The  consul  only  laughed,  said  something  about  his  being  a 
blunt  old  sailor  who  only  said  it  for  the  sake  of  a  pretty  ex 
pression,  and  the  subject  was  dropped. 

They  shook  hands  at  the  great  castle-gate-like  door  of  the 
hotel ;  and  the  tired  artist  wishing  a  little  rest  before  dinner 
and  devoutly  hoping  he  should  meet  no  one,  particularly 
the  woman  with  the  sad  face  and  pitiful  history — climbed  to 
his  rooms  up  the  great  marble  steps,  and  selfishly  shutting 
up  his  heart,  entered,  shut  the  door,  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  marble  floor,  thinking  only  of  Annette — the  One 
Fair  Woman. 


CHAPTEE  IY. 


COUNTESS   EDNA. 

F  this  fair,  sad-faced  lady,  the 
Countess  Edna,  was  beautiful 
as  she  sat  in  the  carriage,  she 
was  tenfold  more  so  as  she 
moved  in  her  rich  Italian  dress 
down  to  the  salle  that  evening 
to  dinner. 

Murietta  had  been  there  be 
fore  she  entered.  He  had  his 
face  on  his  upturned  palm,  and 


113 

1 1       was  moody  and    silent,    and    dissatisfied  with 
Genoa.     He  had  not  seen  her  enter,  although 
he  had  been  looking  straight  in  that  direction. 
When  he  first  saw  her,  she  was  walking,   or 
rather  gliding,  moving  as  if  on  waves,  coming 
noiselessly,  save  the  rustle  of  her  trailing  pink 
garments,  straight  upon  him.     He  half  rose  to 
his  feet,  and  her  husband,  who  followed,  very  gently  seated 
her  at  the  table  only  a  remove  or  two  away. 

Again  Murietta  fell  into  his  mood.     He  was  thinking  of 
her  he  fain  would  find. 

There  was   the   prettiest  little  laugh,  and  the   beautiful 

countess  turned  her  head  just  a  little  so  as  to  lift  and  let  fall 

the  shower  of  her  golden  hair  about  her  bare   and  blushing 

shoulders ;  and  Murietta  turned  to  look,  admire,  and  listen. 

The  big  admiral   sat   opposite,  bowed   low   to    Murietta, 


Countess  Edna.  33 

reached  his  hand  as  if  he  held  his  heart  in  it — and  then 
turned  to  look  with  a  sort  of  hungry  expression  at  his  pri 
soner. 

The  Count  Edna  sat  beside  his  lady,  and  beyond  her  sat 
the  red-faced,  fat,  very  proper  English  clergyman,  in  black 
clothes,  with  his  napkin  tucked  up  under  his  chin. 

The  lady  had  been  speaking  to  this  clergyman,  and  he  had 
evidently  been  talking  of  or  quoting  the  Italian  poets. 

"  Dante  !  "  laughed  the  lady,  "  ha,  ha  !  it  was  Dante  who 
wrote  all  about  hell,  was  it  not  ?  " 

The  clergyman  bowed  profoundly. 

"  Well,  was  Dante  ever  married  ?  " 

The  clergyman  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  rolled  his 
eyes  about,  and  lifted  up  the  lower  part  of  his  napkin  and 
threatened  his  mouth  with  it,  and  held  it  there  theologically 
and  in  silence. 

The  count  sighed,  and  looked  down  the  table  for  sympa 
thy.  A  very  long  spinster  in  gold  spectacles  away  down 
the  table  said,  "  Poor  lady,"  loud  enough  for  all  to  hear,  and 
the  hungry  admiral  whipped  out  a  book  and  wrote  something 
under  the  shadow  of  his  enormous  chin. 

"  Because,"  continued  the  countess,  as  if  she  had  not  heard 
a  thing  that  passed,  though  she  heard,  saw,  felt  all,  and  more 
than  all,  "  because  I  want  to  read  Dante  once  more,  and 
must  inform  myself  on  this  point,  for  I  have  no  confidence 
in  authors  who  get  their  information  second-hand  !  " 

As  the  dinner  advanced  the  big  admiral  melted  away  under 
the  influence  of  Italian  wine,  and  withdrew,  taking  the  Count 
in  tow.  The  man  sandwiched  in  between  the  artist  and  the 
Countess  was  absorbed  by  the  literary  lady  in  gold  spectacles, 
and  drawn  to  her  side  ;  and  thus  Murietta  found  himself  at 
last  almost  alone  by  the  very  woman  he  had  wished  to 
avoid. 

He  had  expected  her  to  begin  and  weary  him  out  in  a  dozen 
ways  at  once.  On  the  contrary,  she  sat  silent,  as  far  as  he 


34  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

was  concerned,  and  only  addressed  herself  to  the  little  sun 
shine  of  a  boy  by  her  side. 

"  Yes,"  at  last,  she  answered  to  the  old  stereotyped  question 
which  every  traveller  puts  to  his  fellow-traveller  by  way  of 
breaking  the  ice,  "yes;  she  liked  Genoa  well.  It  had  such 
a  history — had  been  such  a  brave  old  crxisader." 

"  And  then  it  discovered  us  ! "  added  the  artist. 

She  was  thoughtful  a  moment,  and  then  observed, — 

"  What  a  nomad ;  what  a  roving  restless  creature  is  man 
all  his  life — and  even  sometimes  after  life  !  Columbus,  born 
here  in  the  shadow  of  the  Apennines,  lies  buried  on  the  other 
side  of  the  world ;  and  John  the  Baptist,  born  away  in  Judea, 
lies  buried  here  in  Genoa, 

'  By  the  tideless,  dolorous,  midland  sea  ! '  " 

The  artist  was  getting  interested.  He  waited  for  her — 
wished  for  her  to  continue,  but  he  did  not  speak.  The  lady 
looked  down  and  lifted  the  long  hair  from  the  shoulders  of 
the  little  boy  who  sat  by  her  side  in  blue  velvet  and  innu 
merable  buttons,  then  looked  at  Murietta  again,  smiling,  and 
went  on : — 

"It  is  best  to  come  suddenly  upon  Genoa,  and  always  from 
the  sea,  if  you  wish  to  behold  it  in  all  its  beauty.  There 
are  two  ways  of  coming  upon  new  lands :  the  first,  and  by  far 
the  most  common  way,  is  to  consult  maps,  and  histories,  and 
guide-books,  and  books  of  travel,  and  so  seek  out  a  place, 
full  of  second-hand  knowledge  of  all  it  has  to  offer  you ;  the 
other  and  better  way,  if  you  have  the  world  and  life  before 
you,  and  lots  of  leisure,  is  to  go  down  to  the  sea,  embark  on 
the  first  ship  that  points  in  the  direction  you  wish  to  go,  and 
ask  no  questions  about  the  land  you  are  to  touch  upon,  but 
drift  and  dream  till  you  are  set  down  in  your  new  world.  In 
that  way  you  become — to  yourself  at  least — a  sort  of  Colum 
bus  ;  and  the  new  port  is  to  you  a  discovery  and  a  revelation." 

Murietta  was  interested.     He  had  thought  of  all  this,  had 


Countess  Edna.  35 

himself  experienced  it,  and  could  do  no  more  nor  less  than 
frankly  confess  the  truth. 

"  I  discovered  the  extreme  delight  of  this  sort  of  a  voyage 
by  accident,"  he  said,  "  or  rather  by  simply  going  to  the  sea 
and  shipping  without  any  other  purpose  or  object  than  to  get 
away  from  the  land.  I  know  of  nothing  equal  to  it." 

"  How  strange  it  is  here,  is  it  not  ?  "  she  queried.  ((  When 
you  first  land,  you  somehow  feel  you  are  approaching  the 
confines  of  Asia.  You  see  turbaned  Turks  and  tawny  Arabs, 
moving  dreamily  up  and  down  the  crowded  quay ;  and  the 
red-capped  sailors  and  the  oddly-dressed  fishermen,  barefooted 
and  indolent,  testify  that  you  have  found  a  new,  or  rather 
old — very  old — order  of  life." 

She  stopped,  looked  at  the  artist  a  moment,  and  went  on, 
"  here  all  things  are  new,  even  to  very  old  travellers.  From 
the  moment  you  land  you  constantly  come  upon  strange 
things,  and  are  constantly  bumping  your  head  against  pro 
prieties  and  time-honored  customs.  Few  cities  have  so  per 
fectly  maintained  their  individuality  as  Genoa.  No  doubt 
its  isolationv  its  wall  of  Apennines,  and  its  long  and  bitter 
wars  with  neighboring  cities,  had  much  to  do  with  keeping 
it  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  world.  But  from  the  first  its 
people  were  a  brave,  resolute,  and  original  race.  And  even 
to-day  the  men  who  led  in  the  Crusades,  discovered  a  world, 
and  established  some  rules  in  art,  seem  pretty  well  content 
to  go  011  in  ways  peculiarly  their  own." 

Again  her  great  eyes  opened  wide,  and  with  the  same  en 
thusiasm  she  continued : 

"  What  immense  houses  !  they  look  like  little  mountains. 
I  thought  I  had  seen  large  and  lofty  houses  in  Edinburgh, 
but  I  find  the  houses  of  that  romantic  old  city  are  mere 
cottages  compared  to  those  in  Genoa.  When  I  came  to  look 
at  my  rooms  here,  in  this  hotel,  the  proprietor  said  some 
thing  to  the  clerk  ;  then  the  clerk  said  something  to  a  man 
in  a  red  cap ;  then  the  man  in  the  red  cap  bowed,  and  said 


36  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

something  to  a  woman  in  a  white  cap  ;  and  then  the  black- 
eyed  woman  in  the  white  cap  took  a  candle  in  her  hand  and 
stood  before  me.  And  do  you  know  that  all  this  time  this 
looked  just  like  a  play  ?  Everybody  was  dressed  as  if 
dressed  for  the  stage,  and  everybody  moved  or  spoke  or 
reached  their  hands  just  as  if  they  had  been  trained  to  move 
and  speak  and  reach  their  hands  just  in  this  way  for  all 
time." 

"  And  then  ?  "  asked  Murietta. 

"  And  then  the  whole  committee,  save  the  clerk,  was  sent 
away  with  the  Count  to  assist  in  selecting  rooms." 

"  Ah,"  laughed  the  Countess,  "  it  takes  more  men  and 
women  in  Genoa  to  do  nothing  than  in  any  other  place  in  the 
world— except  perhaps  in  Washington  !  " 

Then  the  lady  wandered  back  to  the  time  she  first  saw 
Genoa. 

"  If  you  are  only  fortunate  enough  to  first  sight  Genoa  as 
the  sun  goes  down  behind  you  !  Wonderful  !  marvellous  ! 
It  looks  like  a  miracle  !  You  will  think  there  is  surely  a  city 
in  the  heavens  !  There,  back  of  the  great  white  city,  with  its 
lofty  walls  curving  about  it,  lift  the  Apennines,  white  with 
snow  as  the  clouds  of  an  Indian  summer ;  and  looking  at 
Genoa  from  the  sea,  you  cannot  tell  where  the  city  leaves  off 
or  the  Apennine  peaks  begin.  What  mighty  walls !  And 
then,  even  beyond  the  twenty  miles  of  lofty  wall  and  time- 
stained  battlements  on  the  brown  hills,  you  see  terrace  above 
terrace,  palace  above  palace,  white  and  high,  and  vast  and 
magnificent." 

Her  hands  were  reached  here,  and  her  hair  was  a  perfect 
shower  about  her  shoulder.  The  woman  in  gold  spectacles, 
left  all  alone,  was  busily  taking  notes. 

"  It  is  such  a  city,  contempkted  from  the  sea,  as  we  may 
imagine  Jerusalem  to  have  been.  It  is  truly  '  a  city  set  upon 
a  hill ; '  and  you  clasp  your  hands  and  you  gaze  and  you  gaze 
upon  the  city  of  Columbus,  forgetting  the  blue  seas,  forget- 


Countess  Edna.  37 

ting  the  bluer  skies,  forgetting  the  dreadful  food  you  have 
been  fed  on  for  a  week,  forgetting  the  coarse  sea-captain  with 
the  great  gold  rings  in  his  ears,  till  you  have  touched  the  very 
shore." 

The  artist  leaned  forward  and  listened  with  a  singular 
interest.  All  the  time  he  kept  questioning  to  himself,  is 
this  lady  mad  ;  and  she  continued  with  the  same  earnestness : 

"  You  land,  and  the  delusion  is  gone.  Your  great  white 
idol  of  an  hour  before  is  broken ;  and  lies  an  unshapely, 
dirty,  ugly  mass  before  you.  The  mighty  palaces,  as  you 
approach  them,  are  stained,  broken,  shattered,  falling  to  de 
cay,  and  unlovely  to  look  upon.  The  frescos  are  falling 
away  from  the  walls,  and  the  towers  and  battlements  of  the 
city,  that  appeared  so  splendid  from  the  sea,  now  look  as  if 
they  had  endured  a  thousand  years  of  siege  from  the  grim 
old  conqueror  Time,  and  had  at  last  quite  surrendered.  The 
olive-trees,  that  stretched  in  dark  and  suggestive  lines  around 
and  through  the  upper  part  of  the  city,  are  gray  with  dust ; 
and  the  groves  of  fig-trees  look  as  if  they  had  inherited  tho 
curse  of  the  tree  that  stood  by  the  wayside  of  old." 

"  Yet  Dickens  adored  Genoa,"  continued  the  lady,  "  and 
so  did  Byron  and  Shelley  also.  No  doubt  these  great  masters 
were  somehow  correct  in  their  estimates  of  the  curious  and 
brave  old  town.  But  it  takes  a  long  time  to  grow  to  like  it 
thoroughly  ;  and  you  have  to  find  a  deal  of  compensation  in 
its  scenery  and  fine  sea-air  to  reconcile  you  to  its  narrow, 
dirty  streets,  its  cholera-breeding  customs,  and  the  unac 
countable  indolence  of  its  people." 

"  But,"  said  Murietta,  now  quite  out  of  his  mood,  and 
something  more  than  interested,  "  what  about  the  troop  of 
players  that  trooped  off  up-stairs  to  find  the  rooms  for  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  followed  the  party  and  saw  it  all.  Such  fun  ! 
The  man  in  the  red  cap  led  off,  as  if  striding  across  the 
stage.  Then  we  climbed  the  great  marble  stairs.  They  were 
wide  and  large  as  the  steps  of  a  state  capitol.  They  were  as 


38  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

sloping,  gradual,  and  easy  as  a  well-regulated  turnpike.  For 
the  first  half  mile  the  steps  were  of  white  marble.  After 
that  the  marble  was  black  and  the  steps  more  narrow,  yet 
still  wide  enough  for  a  team  of  four-in-hand  to  climb  with 
perfect  composure.  At  last  my  Hamlet  stopped,  struck 
an  attitude,  had  the  great  double  doors  swung  open,  raised 
the  candle  above  his  head,  and  told  me  that  if  these  rooms 
did  not  suit,  he  would  be  happy  to  show  me  some  others 
upstairs. " 

"'Good  gracious!'  I  cried,  'and  is  this  not  up-stairs?' 
'  Ah,  no,'  answered  the  gentle  Italian,  as  he  lowered  the 
candle,  *  this  is  only  the  fifth  floor.' " 

"The  most  noticeable  and  unpleasant  thing  here  in  the 
construction  and  arrangement  of  these  massive  bjiil  dings  is 
the  universal  and  wearisome  use  of  marble.  From  the  mar 
ble-paved  street  you  enter  a  marble-paved  court,  you  mount 
marble  steps — and  many  a  step  indeed  !  and  at  last  you  enter 
a  massive  door  cased  in  white  marble,  to  find  your  floor  a 
naked  shining  sheet  of  ghastly  marble.  Marble  tables,  mar 
ble  stands,  marble  bureaus — all  things  that  you  look  upon 
or  lay  hands  upon — nothing  but  one  dreadful  nightmare  of 
marble." 

"  It  is  like  taking  up  quarters  in  an  aristocratic  church 
yard,"  laughed  the  Countess.  "  I  am  sure  that  if  I  should 
ask  for  any  additional  furniture  and  get  it,  that  it  would 
come  in  the  shape  of  another  tombstone." 

The  Count  and  the  lady's  keeper  had  not  returned.  The 
little  boy  had  been  led  away  by  a  servant;  and  Murietta 
could  do  no  less  than  offer  the  Countess  his  arm  when  the 
cloth  was  removed.  They  entered  the  great  parlor,  and  sat 
by  the  open  window  alone  overlooking  a  portion  of  the 
great  city.  It  was  white  and  splendid  in  the  mellow 
moon. 

"  Look,"  said  the  painter,  pointing  to  a  great  palace  all 
covered  with  beautiful  frescos,.  "  Does  it  not  look  as  if  the 


Countess  Edna.  39 

palace  had  been  filled  full  of  splendid  pictures,  and  was  now 
boiling  over  and  spilling  down  on  the  outside  ?  " 

"  Beautiful !  "  cried  the  lady  with  enthusiasm.  "Nothing 
is  more  noticeable  here  amongst  all  classes  than  the  devotion 
to  art.  This,  however,  as  all  the  world  knows,  obtains 
throughout  the  whole  peninsula.  Your  porter  is  an  actor ; 
your  bootblack  sings  an  opera,  keeping  time  to  the  strokes 
of  his  brush ;  and  your  chambermaid  is  generally  a  better 
iudge  of  pictures  than  yourself.  A  gentleman  told  me  once 
of  a  Genoese  boy,  his  servant,  to  whom  he  showed  a  rather 
stupid-looking  picture  of  '  Lucretia,'  and  asked  what  he 
thought  of  it.  '  It  is  not  good,'  the  Italian  servant  an 
swered  ;  '  there  is  no  death,  no  desperation,  no  nothing  in 
the  face.  She  only  looks  as  if  she  might  be  sorry  that  there 
was  not  another  Tarquin.'" 

The  lady  paused  a  moment.  She  seemed  delighted  with 
her  new  friend,  and  took  up  the  subject  again  in  a  wild  and 
eager  way. 

"  Even  the  gray-headed  old  beggar,  down  at  the  corner  of 
the  street,  begs  artistically  to  a  fault.  I  am  certain  that  if 
he  were  to  make  a  false  gesture  with  his  extended  hand,  or 
drop  a  key  too  low  in  his  dolorous  petition  for  alms,  he 
would  despise  himself  for  a  month — and  possibly  go  and 
hang  himself  in  despair.  Every  house  seems  to  be  a  pic 
ture-gallery,  without,  as  well  as  within.  Nearly  all  the 
houses  are  painted  outside  in  flowers  and  stars  and  bars  and 
banners,  and  pictures  of  hideous  beasts  and  reptiles  and 
men  and  Madonnas,  in  every  conceivable  attitude  and  con 
dition,  and  in  all  the  hues  of  the  rainbow.  It  is  true  they 
are  nearly  all  cracked  and  faded  and  ugly — perhaps  were 
even  from  the  first — even  to  hideousness.  But  we  take 
refuge  in  the  thought  that  they  were  all  done  in  the  interest 
of  art,  and  possibly  meant  a  great  deal  in  the  world's  far 
dawn.  And  this  devotion  to  art  is  sincere  ! "  she  continued, 
absorbed  in  her  subject.  "  It  has  borne  and  will  continue 


40  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

to  bear  its  fruit.  The  whole  world  will  testify  to  that. 
When  you  remember  that  no  gallery  is  complete  without  a 
most  liberal  contribution  from  this  land,  and  that  even  the 
great  Covent  Garden  cannot  have  an  opera  without  procur 
ing  at  least  three-fourths  of  its  force  from  Italy,  you  are 
willing  to  forgive  a  vast  deal  of  nonsense  in  detail  for  the 
results  in  the  aggregate." 

Her  face  was  glorious  with  enthusiasm.  But  she  stopped 
suddenly.  She  felt,  rather  than  saw,  that  she  was  being 
watched.  Murietta  turned  his  head. 

There  stood  the  Count  in  the  doorway  under  the  shadow  of 
the  enormous  chin.  Both  men  were  glaring  hard  at  the  two 
who  sat  by  the  window,  out  of  the  dark  of  the  doorway. 

She  leaned  towards  Murietta  as  if  continuing  the  conver 
sation. 

"  I  have  something  to  say.  Ah  !  I  must  say  it,  and  say  it 
soon.  Do  not — do  not  run  away  from  me.  They  all  run  away 
— all  of  them — whenever  I  begin  to  tell  them  how  it  is  I  am 
a  prisoner.  I  am  watched  !  I  have  talked  long  to  you  to-night 
to  prove  to  you  that  I  am  not  mad.  Am  I  mad  ?  Do  you 
think  I  am  mad  ?  Will  you  some  day  tell  me  ?  will  you  some 
day  sit  still  and  hear  me  ?  Oh,  I  am  so  alone !  " 

She  almost  hissed  these  words  into  his  ear.  She  had  risen 
as  she  spoke,  and  now  reaching  her  hand  timidly,  she  said 
"  Good-night  1  "  and  was  gone,  through  the  door,  into  the 
hands  of  the  Count  and  under  the  shadow  of  the  enormous  chin. 

Murietta  paced  his  room  that  night.  He  was  perfectly 
certain  he  had  never  seen  so  much  beauty,  so  much  quiet 
dignity,  such  devotion  to  art,  such  clear  good  sense  in  any  one 
woman  before.  He  was  certain  something  was  wrong.  He  had 
wished  to  avoid  her.  He  was  a  knight  by  nature ;  but  he  did 
not  care  for  a  tilt  now.  The  more  he  thought  of  the  situation 
of  things,  the  more  he  was  perplexed  and  annoyed. 

At  last  he  drew  back  his  foot,  kicked  an  ottoman  with  all 
his  might,  said  "  Confound  that  woman  !  "  and  went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  V. 


MAD    OR   NOT   MAD  F 


E  always  rises  refreshed  in 
Italy.  The  rest  there  is  the 
rest  of  the  Lotus  land. 

An    Italian    beggar    will 
drop    down    asleep    in    the 
shadow    of    a    fig    tree    or 
wayside  wall,  weary,  hungry, 
worn.      He  will  rise  up  in 
less  than  two  hours,  climb 
up   on  the  top  of  the  wall 
if  possible,  and  sit  there  like  a  bird, 
fresh  as  the  morning,  and  will  sing 
an  opera  from  the  very  gladness  and 
fulness  of  his  heart. 

Murietta  arose  next  morning  on 
much  better  terms  with  himself  and 

the  world  generally.  The  sea  as  he  looked  out  from  his 
lofty  window  was  like  an  opal  in  the  glorious  sunlight  of 
an  Italian  autumn.  Ships  drew  in  and  ships  blew  out  as  if 
Genoa  was  young  and  strong  and  full  of  life. 

The  stars  and  stripes  fluttered  by  the  side  of  the  crescent, 
and  the  artist  kissed  his  hand  to  the  pretty  banner,  for  under 
its  folds  he  had  seen  and  had  suffered  much.  It  was  like 
looking  upon  an  old,  dear,  and  devoted  friend. 

The  Countess  Edna  still  lingered  at  breakfast  in  the  coffee- 
room,  and  Murietta  was  not  at  all  annoyed  to  see  her  there, 


42  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

bright  and  beautiful,  as  he  entered.  There  was  no  cloud 
lowering  over  this  sun  in  the  shape  of  the  Count,  no  shadow  of 
the  great  chin;  and  the  beautiful  woman  sat  there  sideways 
at  the  table  in  her  light  pink  clothes,  her  little  feet  in  pink 
slippers  on  a  footstool,  and  seemed  tranquil  as  the  morning. 
Her  lap  was  full  of  morning  papers,  which  she  perhaps  had 
never  meant  to  read.  There  were,  tumbled  promiscuously, 
magazines  and  little  paper-covered  novels  right  and  left  before 
her  on  the  table. 

She  smiled  her  recognition,  subdued,  in  silence,  and  turned 
her  eyes  to  the  chair  opposite.  Murietta  hesitated.  At  an 
other  time  when  the  sun  shone  less  brightly,  or  his  heartbeat 
less  lightly,  he  had  not  hesitated  at  all,  but  would  have  gone 
straight  on  to  the  little  table  away  back  in  the  corner,  and 
hidden  himself  there  out  of  sight,  as  was  his  habit.  But  now 
he  stood  still  and  looked  inquiringly  around. 

The  lady  lifted  ner  eyes  to  his.  She  took  hold  of  him  as 
if  he  had  been  a  prisoner.  She  led  him  with  her  eyes  si 
lently  and  gently  to  the  place  opposite,  and  as  he  bowed 
helplessly  before  her  and  said,  "  With  your  permission,"  set 
him  down  a  captive  to  her  beauty. 

"  Yes,  the  Count  was  out  on  the  bay  with  little  Sunshine 
and  the  big  Admiral." 

"  Dear,  clear,  dead  old  Genoa  !  "  The  artist  said  this  half 
to  himself  and  half  to  the  lady,  as  he  looked  at  the  crumbling 
frescos  on  the  great  palace  wall  opposite,  for  he  did  not  wish 
to  think  of  that  ugly  man  the  admiral  on  a  morning  of  such 
matchless  beauty. 

The  great  dreamy  eyes  were  wide  as  if  with  wonder.  The 
little  pink  feet  tapped  impatiently  on  the  ottoman,  and  the 
papers  rustled  in  the  lap  with  the  dress,  and  against  the 
ruffles  of  soft  pink  and  rose,  and  she  began  with  the  same 
strange,  earnest  enthusiasm  she  had  shown  the  night  before. 

"  No,  no,  no  !  Genoa  is  not  dead.  It  seems  to  be  taking 
a  second  growth.  There  are  factories  and  machine-shops 


Mad  or  Not  Mad?  43 

growing  up  about  the  outskirts  of  the  town ;  and  now  and 
then  a  new  palace  or  hotel  is  creeping  up  from  the  crowded 
mass  of  buildings  within  the  walls.  You  can  well  imagine, 
however,  that  once  the  city  slept.  You  can  see  where  it 
stood  still  for  nearly  a  thousand  years — until  the  wonderful 
little  Corsican  came  down  the  Alps  and  awakened  all  Italy 
with  the  thunder  of  his  cannon.  And  since  then  there  has 
been  no  sleep  !  but  it  has  gone  on  steadily  step  by  step — 
politically,  socially,  and  materially — till  the  country  stands  in 
no  wise  in  the  rear  of  nations." 

Murietta  began  to  be  troubled  in  his  mind  again.  The 
pretty  Italian  actor  dressed  for  his  part,  and  perfect  in  it  as 
if  he  had  been  all  night  at  rehearsal,  came  sailing  in  here  with 
two  very  bright  and  shining  instruments  lifted  high  in  his 
hands,  and  held  by  two  black  and  crooked  handles.  He 
came  sideways  and  bowing  up  to  the  table  by  Murietta,  and 
bowing  again,  tilted  his  instruments,  and  at  one  and  the  same 
time  turned  a  little  cataract  of  boiling  chalk  and  water,  and 
a  little  cataract  of  burnt  beans,  into  a  great  white  coffee  cup, 
and  bowing  again  tilted  back  his  instruments,  lifted  them  in 
the  air  on  a  level  with  his  head,  and  bowed  himself  back  and 
sideways  with  such  artistic  perfection  that  Murietta  almost 
expected  to  see  the  curtain  come  down,  and  was  a  little  dis 
appointed  that  there  was  not  a  storm  of  applause  from  the 
painted  cupids  on  the  frescoed  ceilings  and  walls. 

"  And  I  suppose  you  have  '  done  '  Genoa  ?  "  he  observed 
to  the  Countess. 

"  No,  no,  not '  done '  Genoa  at  all.  Genoa  is  like  Rome, 
inexhaustible  !  "  she  said.  "  One  cannot  well  tire  of  looking 
at  the  old,  old  palaces,  built  Heaven  knows  when  !  One  sees 
them  still  roofed  with  Roman  tile,  and  on  the  side  next  the 
sun  as  red  and  bright  as  ever,  but  on  the  other  slope  gray 
and  mossed,  and  made  velvet,  as  if  for  the  feet  of  Time. 
And  then,  within,  the  walls  are  made  alive  with  masterpieces 
of  painting  ;  and  some  are  hung  with  implements  of  war — 


44  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

trophies  that  were  won,  and  banners  that  were  borne  in 
triumph  through  the  Holy  Land." 

Again  the  papers  and  the  ruffles  rustled,  and  the  little 
pink  feet  tapped  restlessly  on  the  gorgeous  ottoman. 

"  Then  there  is  a  museum  of  antiquities — the  collection, 
unlike  those  of  our  country  and  of  England,  made  up  mostly 
from  older  lands  than  Italy — as  if  these  people  counted  theirs 
but  a  new  country,  and  only  the  orient  gray  enough  to  give 
them  relics  worth  preserving.  "What  a  curious  collection  it 
is  indeed  !  The  implements  of  war  are  all  gnawed  and  bitten 
by  the  teeth  of  Time  ;  and  the  stained  and  yellow  statuary  is 
broken  up  as  if  it  had  been  overthrown  and  ground  and 
ground  beneath  the  wheels  of  his  chariot." 

Murietta  leaned  and  listened,  and  as  she  paused  he  said 
something  of  the  great  wealth  for  want  of  a  better  theme — 
for  he  wished  to  hear  her  through. 

"  No,  you  mistake ;  these  people  are  comparatively  very 
poor.  With  all  this  city  full  of  palaces,  filled  with  costly 
pictures,  you  see  at  once  that  even  the  wealthy  people  of 
Genoa — and  even  of  all  Italy  as  a  rule — are  very  poor.  That 
is,  we  strangers  from  the  West  see  it  and  feel  it  at  every  turn. 
Perhaps  the  feeling  will  wear  away  in  time,  but  it  makes 
one  uncomfortable  at  first.  However,  it  is  a  sort  of  dignified 
poverty  that  refuses  to  complain  or  is  above  complaining. 
The  country,  as  a  whole,  reminds  you  of  some  great  and 
good  man,  devoted  to  art,  who  had  once  great  fortune,  but 
having  lost  it,  sits  down  quiet  and  uncomplaining,  satisfied, 
and  scarcely  regretting  his  loss  in  his  love  of  art." 

"  But  then  come  the  beggars,"  said  the  artist. 

"  As  for  the  beggars,  I  hardly  find  them  a  nuisance,"  she 
rejoined  ;  "  they  are  so  civil,  so  artistic,  and  so  easily  satisfied. 
A  five-centime  piece — equal  to  an  American  cent — is  enough 
to  insure  you  half  a  dozen  graceful  bows,  and  to  make  a  fel 
low-creature  happy  for  half  a  day  at  least ;  and  I  count  that 
very  cheap  indeed.  Besides,  the  number  of  these  beggars 


Mad  or  Not  Mad?  45 

constantly  testifies  to  the  liberality  of  oxir  countrymen ;  for 
if  we  did  not  continue  to  give  they  would  cease  to  beg.  You 
will  notice  that  they  never  beg  of  their  own  countrymen. 
An  answer  in  Italian  is  quite  as  satisfactory  as  a  contribu 
tion." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Murietta,  "  I  shall  yet  find  it  necessary 
to  learn  the  language  and  the  native  accent." 

The  little  lady  laughed  in  a  low  careless  way,  and  went 
on — 

"Yes,  you  will  like  Genoa;  for  it  is  full  of  art,  and  heart, 
and  beauty.  I  know  of  nothing  in  the  world  more  beautiful 
in  its  way  than  the  kindness  and  readiness  with  which  the 
wealthy  possessors  of  fine  pictures,  of  all  works  of  art,  and 
even  elegant  gardens,  open  their  doors  to  all  comers  who  wish 
to  behold  them.  There  is  a  perfect  little  paradise — a  garden 
full  of  fine  statuary,  lakes,  caves,  trees  from  the  tropics, 
everything  that  can  amuse  and  instruct — a  few  miles  out 
yonder,  overlooking  the  Mediterranean.  This  place  is  open 
to  all  on  festal  days — and  that  means  about  half  the  time  in 
Italy — without  any  question  whatever.  At  all  other  times  it 
is  accessible  by  special  permit.  It  was  constructed  by  an  old 
Italian  marquis,  in  the  time  of  a  famine,  to  give  employment 
to  starving  men.  May  he  rest  in  peace,  and  his  name  and 
his  deed  be  long  remembered.  And  this  is  only  a  specimen, 
though  perhaps  about  the  finest,  of  the  climbing  gardens  that 
look  down  from  the  Apennines  on  Genoa  and  the  sea.  It  is 
these  sweet  environs,  no  doubt,  which  endeared  Genoa  to  the 
great  artists  who  have  gone  before,  and  left  their  footprints 
in  this  singular  and  isolated  city.  And  ah,  such  funny 
funerals  !  Have  you  seen  a  funeral  in  Genoa  ?  " 

The  artist  almost  shuddered,  and  shook  his  head  in  silence, 
for  the'  lady  laughed  outright. 

"  Well,  I  will  tell  you  how  it  is  done.  I  with  my  maid 
was  walking  in  one  of  the  dark  and  narrow  streets  the  other 
day,  and  I  came  upon  four  strangely  masked  and  most  solemn 


46  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

looking  individuals  in  black,  moving  slowly  and  in  single  file 
down  the  steep  and  stony  way.  '  Here  is  another  of  their 
hundred  holidays,'  I  said  to  myself,  '  and  these  solemn  and 
monkish-looking  maskers  are  gay  young  fellows  bent  on  hav 
ing  a  lark.'  I  felt  like  poking  one  of  them  with  the  end  of 
my  parasol.  I  said  nothing,  however ;  but  as  our  way  lay  in 
the  same  direction,  I  followed  along  till  they  came  to  one  of 
those  ghostly,  dark,  close  ways,  that  look  like  caves  and  seem 
never  to  be  closed,  and  here  they  entered  and  faded  away  into 
the  darkness.  Before  I  had  fairly  turned  aside  my  solemn 
maskers  again  came  slowly  out  of  their  cave,  bearing  some 
thing  black  upon  their  shoulders.  It  was  a  corpse,  and  these 
were  the  undertakers  of  Genoa.  There  is  a  kind  of  brother 
hood  here  devoted  to  this  solemn  office.  It  is  made  up  of 
men  who  do  this  in  penance  for  their  sins.  As  the  streets  are 
too  narrow  to  admit  carriages,  the  dead  body  must  be  borne 
on  the  shoulders.  The  burial  of  the  better  classes  is  another 
affair,  and  often  quite  imposing." 

Marietta  was  silent  again.  What  in  the  world  could  in 
duce  this  beautiful  woman  to  go  prowling  around  among  the 
dead  in  those  dreadful  places  ? 

"  But  you — really,  you — you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you 
go  into  these  dark  streets  alone,  and  for  diversion  ?  " 

"  Alone  and  for  diversion,  if  you  like  ;  why  not  ?  Besides, 
other  amusements  are  shut  to  me.  Women  talk  and  men 
stare.  They  say  I  am  mad  !  I  go  among  those  poor  wretches, 
I  give  them  money,  they  give  me  their  blessings  ;  and  I 
reckon  that  more  than  gold.  They  do  not  watch  me  at  all. 
They  are  honest — good.  My  friend,  the  sweetest  flowers  grow 
close  to  the  earth." 

Marietta  did  not  answer.  The  little  brows  were  knit  a 
bit,  the  pretty  pouting  lips  pushed  out,  and  the  papers  rus 
tled  again  over  the  rosy  ruffles,  and  the  regiment  of  novels 
on  the  table  changed  about  as  if  it  intended  to  march,  and 
the  little  pink  feet  tapped  more  nervously  than  before. 


Mad  or  Not  Mad?  47 

Then  she  laughed,  and  the  papers  joined  in  a  little  chorus, 
and  when  they  had  done  dancing  and  laughing,  she  went  on — 

"  We  had  a  little  earthquake  here  recently  ;  and  not  long 
after  the  pleasant  sensation,  in  one  of  my  solitary  walks 
through  the  poor  parts  of  the  city,  I  came  upon  a  most  unac 
countable  number  of  funerals.  On  inquiring  of  a  physician 
I  found  that  the  cholera  was  raging  in  Genoa,  and  that  it  was 
very  fatal ;  less  than  one-fourth  of  those  attacked  recovering. 
He  told  me  that  the  day  after  the  earthquake  the  number  of 
fatal  cases  was  more  than  doubled.  They  were  frightened  to 
death  !  Do  you  mind  earthquakes  ?  " 

Murietta  only  looked  his  answer. 

"  Oh,  I  do  like  them  so  much  !  "  continued  the  Countess, 
"  I  should  like  to  be  rocked  to  sleep  in  the  lap  of  my  mother 
by  an  earthquake." 

The  curtain  was  raised,  or  at  least  two  actors  entered 
here,  bowing  gracefully,  dressed  in  splendid  stage  array,  and 
bearing  aloft  a  tray  in  each  right  hand,  as  they  glided  side 
ways  towards  the  table.  The  china  and  the  teaspoons  met 
in  convention  on  these  trays,  talked  for  a  moment  in  an 
undertone ;  the  stray  bits  of  bread  gathered  themselves  to 
gether  as  these  graceful  actors  moved  their  hands  over  the 
linen.  The  trays  lifted  up  light  as  balances;  the  graceful 
actors  bowed  and  edging  sideways  were  gone,  and  the  cur 
tain  seemed  to  come  down  and  the  piece  was  over. 

"  You  have  been  to  Nervi  ?  " 

The  brown  eyes,  so  soft,  so  childlike,  so  lonesome,  so 
hungry  for  love,  so  wishful  for  just  one  friend,  man  or 
woman,  brother,  sister,  mother,  any  one — they  lifted  to  his 
timidly.  Then  as  if  half  frightened  they  turned  aside,  and 
the  lady  laughed  as  if  to  divert  herself,  and  tapped  the  otto 
man  and  passed  the  regiment  of  novels  all  up  and  down  with 
her  little  lily-white  right  hand. 

"  Well,  you  must  go  to  Nervi.  I  will  tell  you  all  about 
it.  It  is  a  little  resting-place  five  or  six  miles  down  the 


48  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

line  of  sea,  and  I  often  go  out  there  for  a  day  or  two  to  see 
the  patient,  simple  peasants  at  their  work.  The  drive  is  the. 
only  really  pleasant  one  around  Genoa.  You  pass  right 
under  the  little  mountain  where  we  first  met — you  look  sur 
prised.  Well,  you  will  find  the  road  to  the  eastern  gate  of 
Genoa  leads  right  under  and  through  the  little,  half  levelled 
mountain  on  which  that  beautiful  drive  and  garden  with  the 
trees  is  built.  Then  you  pass  through  a  great  moss-grown 
gate  that  opens  from  the  old  and  crowded  city,  and  you  pass 
many  Madonnas  fastened  up  in  the  walls  of  houses  and\over 
doors.  And  you  know  these  lamps  are  always  burning,  and 
the  peasants  never  pass  them  without  crossing  themselves 
and  lifting  their  tattered  hats." 

She  stopped,  looked  away,  and  seemed  to  forget  her  narra 
tive. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Murietta,  as  if  to  call  her  back  to  her  sub 
ject. 

"  There  are  soldiers  mounted  on  the  mighty  wall  of  the 
city,  which  is  at  least  twenty  miles  in  length ;  and  you  rarely 
pass  the  gate  without  having  an  officer  peer  into  your  car 
riage  and  pull  at  the  robes,  or  whatever  he  likes  to  lay  hands 
on.  You  pass  '  Paradiso,'  the  old  home  of  Lord  Byron,  and 
'  The  Pink  Jail,'  the  residence  of  Charles  Dickens.  I  fancy 
that  in  the  names  which  those  two  artists  gave  their  Italian 
homes,  you  may  read  much  of  their  natures.  But  ah  !  how 
beautiful  is  Paradiso !  What  poet  could  not  have  written 
poetry  here  ?  Peace  and  repose,  luxury  and  refinement  and 
art  on  every  hand,  with  never  a  thought  of  the  wolf  at  the 
door  or  the  world. 

"  A  little  way  beyond  this  beautiful  palace,  half  hidden  in 
vines  and  trees,  a  very  island  in  a  little  sea  of  flowers,  there 
stands  the  tall  thin  marble  shaft  that  marks  the  spot  from 
which  Garibaldi  with  his  few  followers  stealthily  embarked 
one  night,  bearing  the  future  of  Italy.  I  kiss  my  hand  away 
across  the  sea  to  Caprera  as  I  pass  ! 


Mad  or  Not  Mad?  49 

"  You  cross  deep,  dried-up  gorges  pointing  into  the  sea. 
And  all  things  on  this  drive  remind  one  so  much  of  Cali 
fornia.  You  see  I  am  an  American  and  saw  my  own  country 
before  seeing  this ;  before  I  saw  the  Count  Edna.  The  bare 
hills,  the  cunning  little  lizards  on  the  gray  walls,  the  light 
blue  skies,  the  sea,  the  air — all  things  in  fact  seem  a  counter 
part  of  the  fair  and  far  Pacific." 

A  pretty  actor  entered,  walked  across  the  stage,  let  down 
the  colored  curtain  against  the  sun,  and  withdrew  as  she 
continued — 

"  And  here  are  our  little  lean  and  ever-patient  friends,  the 
mules,  in  long  dusty  caravans,  climbing  up  and  down  and 
around  the  rocky  hills,  jtist  as  they  do  in  Mexico.  Every 
thing — milk,  meat,  bread,  wine,  pigs,  chickens,  children,  old 
men,  old  women — all  things,  animate  or  inanimate,  belonging 
to  the  peasantry,  seem  to  climb  up  out  of  the  dust  into  the 
baskets  that  hang  from  the  sides  of  my  thoughtful  but  not 
always  silent  little  friends.  I  met  one  of  these  little  fellows, 
not  much  larger  than  a  Newfoundland  dog,  not  long  ago  as  I 
came  into  town.  The  two  little  bareheaded  and  barefooted 
boys,  who  were  on  their  way  to  the  mountains  to  get  a  load 
of  wood,  had  climbed  into  the  baskets,  and  there  they  lay 
curled  up  like  kittens  and  fast  asleep.  It  was  a  very  warm 
day,  and  the  solemn  little  donkey  was  taking  it  very  slow, 
and  letting  his  long  ears  flop  and  flag  as  if  they  had  wilted  in 
the  sun  ;  but  he  did  not  stop  nor  bump  the  baskets  against 
the  walls,  nor  do  anything  to  disturb  the  little  sleepers." 

"  Babes  of  the  woods  !  How  I  should  like  to  paint  them," 
mused  the  artist. 

"  On  this  pleasant  drive  to  and  from  Nervi,  I  must  tell 
you  there  are  two  institutions  that  you  cannot  avoid,  and 
with  which  you  must  not  quarrel.  One  is  an  old  demented 
beggar,  who  fancies  that  he  is  an  officer,  and  insists  on  in 
specting  your  carriage  for  contraband  goods.  A  penny,  how 
ever,  will  satisfy  him  that  it  is  all  right,  and  he  will  let  you 


50  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

pass.  The  dear  old  fellow  has  learnt  that  from  the  real 
officers  ;  such  a  satire,  is  it  not  ?  The  other  institxition  is  a 
one-legged  beggar  with  matches.  Now  there  is  no  use  in 
trying  to  drive  away  from  this  man.  I  have  tried  it,  and 
there  is  not  a  horse  in  all  Genoa  that  can  escape  him.  He 
is  the  liveliest  Italian  I  ever  saw." 

The  soft  tones  stopped  at  last ;  the  little  pink  feet  played 
their  tattoo  again,  and  the  nervous  little  dimpled  right  hand 
began  to  set  the  regiments  of  novels  in  motion  as  if  a  battle 
was  about  to  begin. 

The  brown  eyes  opened  wide  and  clear  and  candid,  and 
they  looked  to  Murietta.  He  looked  in  her  face  and  felt  as 
if  he  could  rise  up  in  spirit  and  march  in  through  those 
beautiful,  broad,  opened  doors  and  enter  her  soul,  and  sit 
down  there  and  rest  perfectly  satisfied  that  there  was  nothing 
but  good,  but  peace,  but  charity,  but  sympathy,  hope,  and 
faith,  and  love. 

"  I  will  go  to  Nervi,  lady."  He  leaned  over  the  table  on 
his  arms  as  he  spoke,  and  looked  full  in  her  face  with  his  old 
enthusiasm  and  frankness.  "  I  will  go  to  Nervi.  I  will  go 
as  if  on  a  road  that  a  saint  had  travelled.  I  will  lift  my  hafc 
as  I  pass  the  places  you  have  named.  Your  little  peasant 
boys,  yo\ir  beggars,*  even  the  little  mules,  shall  have  all  the 
road  for  me,  for  I  will  step  aside  and  let  them  pass.  I  will 
see  in  each  one  of  them  an  immortal  picture.  Your  custom 
house  officer  shall  take  me  a  prisoner,  and  your  one-legged 
beggar " 

The  lady  turned  white  as  the  marbles  on  the  mantle.  Her 
eyes  fell,  she  did  not  look  around.  She  knew  that  he  was 
there,  and  the  blood  went  back  to  her  heart  in  such  floods 
that  it  beat  and  beat  as  if  there  was  indeed  to  be  a  battle. 

The  enormous  man  with  that  dreadful  chin  was  standing 
in  the  door,  and  the  mild-eyed  Count,  with  his  weak  nose  as 
red  as  a  priest's,  was  standing  under  his  shadow,  watching 
the  beautiful  woman  and  the  enthusiastic  artist. 


Mad  or  Not  Mad?  51 

The  warm  blood  of  Marietta  arose  also.  But  it  was  not 
•with  fear.  He  saw  the  situation  of  things  but  imperfectly,  yet 
he  saw  enough  to  know  perfectly  well  that  there  was  a  wrong, 
and  that  a  woman  was  the  sufferer. 

A  man  has  no  right  to  ask  to  know  more.  This  to  a  man 
should  be  enough  to  insure  his  action.  But  it  is  not  enough 
in  this  day  of  shops  and  shoddy.  The  creature  man,  the 
coward,  must  first  know  that  he,  his  name,  his  position,  his 
money,  his  all,  is  not  only  safe,  but  that  he  is  to  be  paid  for 
his  services  as  a  sort  of  upper  servant  is  paid — and  then  he 
works. 

Bah  !  Out  upon  the  time  ! 

Murietta  did  not  move.  He  did  not  even  take  back  his 
reached  face,  but  sat  there  the  same  as  if  no  one  had  come 
upon  the  scene. 

The  beautiful  lady,  pale  as  a  California  lily,  sank  and 
settled  down  as  if  she  would  disappear  in  the  rosy  folds  of 
her  robes." 

"  Lady,"  the  artist  went  on  as  if  he  still  spoke  of  the  drive 
to  Nervi,  "  lady,  do  not  fear,  do  not  move  unless  you  desire. 
No  hand  shall — no  tongue  shall  insult  you  here." 

"  Oh,  sir,  you  do  not  know  what  you  say.  You  do  not 
know  what  you  promise.  You  do  not  know  a  thing  aboiit 
it.  Ah,  if  you  only  knew  !  Now — now — now — "  she  put 
her  little  hands  to  the  side  of  her  head  as  if  in  pain — "  Ah, 
I  have  wasted  time !  I  was  coining  to  it,  you  know.  I  was 
going  to  tell  you.  I  wanted  to  prove  to  you  that  I  was  all 
righ  t — that — that — you " 

"  Will  you  come  ?  "  called  the  count,  at  the  samp  time 
lifting  his  hat  civilly. 

"  Come,  come,  it's  past  meridian,"  thundered  the  admiral. 

The  lady  arose,  smiled  sadly,  bowed,  looking  back,  and 
went  out  a  prisoner. 

Why  did  they  not  come  in  ?  and  why  did  she  go  away  ? 


CHAPTER  VI. 


GOOD-BYE,    BEAUTIFUL    LADY 


UKIETTA,  finding  himself  left 
alone,  after  loitering  an  hour 
or  two  about  the  hotel,  went 
to  his  friend  the  consul. 

The  consul  was  a  good  man, 
which  is  a  new  thing  in  an 
American  officer  abroad.  The 
consul  was  also  a  politician  and 
a  politic  man,  which  is  not  a 
new  thing  at  all.  In  fact,  had 
he  not  been  a  politician  he  had 
not  been  a  consul. 

The  consul  shook  his  head  and  laughed 
"  My  dear    boy,  this  is    an    old    story. 
Pardon    my  liberty,  but  the   lady  does 
not  suffer.     She    tells,  or  tries  to   tell, 
some  sort  of  a  story  to  every  one  who  will   listen  to  it.     At 
least,  so  I  hear,"  added  the  consul   in  a  sort  of  foot-note,  for 
he  was  a  politician,  and   did  not  like  to  be  positive  or  say 
anything  that  meant  anything  at  all. 
"  Has  she  ever  told  anything  to  you  ?  " 
"  No,  nothing." 

"  And  you  have  known  her  and  you  respect  her  ?  " 
"  Yes,"  bowed  the  consul. 

"  And  you  have  known  her  long  and  like  her  much  ?  " 
"  Like  her  ?   yes,  exceedingly.     She  is  a  good  woman,  as 
good  as  she  is  beautiful,  and  that  is  saying  much !  but  she  is 


Good-Bye,  Beautiful  Lady.  53 

really,  you  know — "  The  consul  touched  his  forehead,  tapped 
it  with  his  fingers,  and  shut  his  eyes. 

"  Yes,  I  understand  what  you  mean.  But  may  you  not  be 
mistaken  ?  May  not  she  be  a  prisoner  ?  May  not  this  hus 
band  be  a  jealous  little  monster?  an  old  man  of  the  moun 
tains  ?  " 

The  cautious  consul  laughed  again,  rose  up,  reached  a  cigar, 
struck  a  match,  and  with  his  cigar  between  his  teeth,  and  the 
light  still  burning  in  his  fingers,  which  he  held  around  it  like 
a  lantern,  said  : — 

"  Murietta,  look  here  !  You  are  an  artist,  an  enthusiast, 
and  a  dreamer.  Half  the  time  you  are  asleep,  the  other  half 
you  are  altogether  too  much  awake.  You  do  things  in  a  wild 
and  unreasonable  way.  Now  you  listen  to  me.  I  do  not 
sleep,  I  do  not  dream  ;  I  am  always  awake.  Level  head,  you 
see." 

He  tapped  his  bald  head  with  his  forefinger  after  throwing 
away  the  match,  and  seated  himself  by  the  side  of  his  friend. 

"  I  see,"  said  Murietta,  though  he  did  not  exactly  see  what 
he  meant. 

"  Well,  I  make  no  mistakes.  Now  let  me  tell  you  what  to 
do.  Will  you  hear  me  ?  will  you  take  my  advice  ?  " 

"  Yes,  that  is " 

"  That  is,  what !  " 

"  Well,  if  I  see  a  lady  in  trouble,  I  shall  not  be  persuaded 
to  let  her  suffer  ;  you  may  take  my  word  for  that." 

"  Suffer  !  Do  you  suppose  a  lady  with  a  hundred  thousand 
francs  a  year,  a  husband  a  titled  gentleman  of  culture,  who  is 
with  her  as  if  he  was  her  shadow,  can  be  allowed  to  suffer  ? 
No,  no,  my  boy,  depend  upon  it  you  are  in  the  wrong.  You 
have  no  experience  with  women — no  sava,  as  your  Mexicans 
would  say.  Besides,  you  cannot  afford  to  mix  up  in  this 
matter,  even  though  there  should  be  the  least  bit  of  tyranny." 

"  And  why  could  I  not  afford  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  would  the  world  say  ?  " 


54  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  That  for  the  world  and  all  it  can  say  and  all  it  can  do  ! " 
Marietta  sprang  to  his  feet  and  snapped  his  fingers,  as  if  he 
was  snapping  a  cap  in  the  face  of  the  world.  "  In  the  teeth 
of  the  world  I  have  lived  thus  far,  and  in  the  teeth  of  the 
world  I  shall  die  !  Let  me  have  the  good  opinion  of  myself, 
and  I  will  whistle  in  the  face  of  the  world  and  askMt  no 
favors."1 

He  stopped  suddenly,  held  down  his  head  in  silence  for  a 
few  moments,  and  then  threw  away  his  cigar,  and  came  up 
and  stood  before  the  consul.  The  flame  that  had  shot  up, 
beautiful  as  it  was,  was  dying  out.  It  had  been  too  intense. 
His  mind  had  been  strung  to  a  sort  of  madness  that  morning, 
and  now,  in  the  presence  of  the  cool  and  clear-headed  friend, 
it  was  tempering  down. 

"  Well,  you  will  pardon  me.  I  am  sorry.  I  want  only  to 
serve  the  lady,  and  not  to  annoy  you.  I  see  that  you  are 
wiser  in  these  things  than  I.  Besides,  what  can  I  do  for 
her  ?  " 

"•Listen.     Will  you  do  as  I  advise  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  Well,  you  will  do  Genoa  to-day  and  to-night.  At  dawn 
to-morrow  there  is  a  ship  goes  oiit  for  Naples.  A  glorious 
sea,  and  a  glorious  sail  it  will  be.  You,  my  friend,  are  not 
now  the  man  to  reach  a  hand  into  any  man's  or  woman's 
affairs.  You  would  only  spoil  all.  Wait,  if  you  must  inter 
fere,  for  a  more  convenient  season." 

The  artist  thought  a  moment,  thought  of  the  old  trouble, 
the  days  before  he  left  the  British  Isles — and  this  confirmed 
him.  He  reached  his  hand. 

"  You  are  perfectly  right  and  I  trust  you.  I  will  go  on 
the  ship  that  leaves  Genoa  for  Naples  to-morrow  morning." 

That  night  Marietta  stood  by  the  old  city  wall  above  the 
sea,  and  watched  the  sun  go  down  on  Genoa.  Away  to  the 
left  the  sea  and  sky  were  one  unbroken  curve  of  blue  ;  but  to 
the  west  the  sun  wedged  in  between  the  two  and  lit  it  up 


Good- Bye,  Beautiful  Lady.  55 

like  a  far  light  in  some  vnst  and  eternal  temple.  And  then 
it  fell  like  a  sinking  isle  of  fire,  and  it  was  night  in  the  city 
of  the  Holy  Grail. 

He  turned  to  look  at  the  houses  behind  him.  They  stood 
on  the  edge  of  a  precipice  at  least  fifty  feet  in  height,  and 
these  houses  were  seven  stories  high. 

He  passed  on,  and  stood  in  the  moonlight  down  on  the  old 
quay,  and  looked  up  at  the  lofty  old  palaces  that  had  looked 
out  on  the  sea  for  a  thousand  years. 

He  entered  one  of  a  thousand  little  alleys,  only  wide 
enough  for  two  or  three  to  walk  abreast,  and  took  his  course 
toward  the  upper  part  of  the  city.  Now  and  then  he  would 
look  up.  Up  !  up  !  up  !  It  seemed  as  if  he  had  crept  like 
a  cricket  into  a  crack  of  the  earth.  He  could  see  nothing 
above  him  but  a  long  bright  line  of  stars.  The  opening  above 
looked  no  wider  than  a  span.  Very  often  there  were  cause 
ways  away  above,  reaching  from  house  to  house  across  the 
street,  and  in  some  places  carriage  roads. 

All  the  time  and  all  this  night,  as  the  dreamer  wandered 
up  and  down  and  around  and  through  this  mighty  and  ancient 
heap  of  marble,  he  was  thinking  and  thinking  and  thinking 
of  that  fair  child-face  that  had  appealed  to  him,  that  wonder 
ful  woman  who  had  been  in  these  strange  old  places  among 
the  poor  before  him — and  he  was  net  glad.  He  even  wished 
he  had  not  promised  to  go  away. 

He  came  to  a  thousand  walls  in  trying  to  make  the  distance 
of  a  mile.  There  were  never  such  people  for  building  walls 
in  the  world.  And  they  build  them  in  the  most  unlikely 
places,  both  in  the  city  and  in  the  country,  that  one  can 
imagine.  Why  they  build  them,  one  does  not  know.  Some 
times  he  would  find  a  narrow  opening  in  the  wall,  and  some 
times  he  would  have  to  turn  back  in  despair.  Sometimes  his 
way  would  lead  directly  through  some  shop.  He  would  hesi 
tate,  but  the  polite  proprietor  would  smile  and  politely  show 
him  the  way  to  advance.  Little  wine-shops,  coffee-shops,  and 


56  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

curious  places  where  maccaroni  was  wound  up,  flattened  out, 
strung  around,  and  put  in  all  conceivable  shapes  for  sale. 

He  found  sitting  in  a  corner  of  one  of  these  shops  a  little 
boy  with  a  bundle  of  newspapers  across  his  lap.  He  went  up 
to  him,  for  this  was  the  first  newsboy  he  had  seen  in  <*enoa. 
The  boy  was  fast  asleep. 

What  a  noisy  city !  There  is  nothing  like  it  on  the  face  of 
the  earth.  All  day  men  and  boys  are  shouting  their  fruits 
or  wares  for  sale;  and  at  night  opera,  nothing  but  opera! 
At  both  ends  and  in  the  middle  of  the  crack  in  the  earth 
you  hear  these  sturdy  singers  at  their  work.  From  the  side 
streets,  or  cracks  in  the  earth,  you  hear  the  same,  and  up  and 
down  the  great  marble  walls  the  sounds  are  echoed  till  you 
cannot  hear  your  own  voice. 

In  these  narrow  streets  you  are  hustled  and  crowded  and 
elbowed  and  spun  around  at  almost  every  step.  Sometimes 
you  have  to  wait  quite  a  time  before  you  can  advance.  You 
will  notice,  however,  that  when  some  of  the  masked  brother 
hood  come  by  with  a  victim  of  the  plague  on  their  shoulders 
they  meet  with  no  obstruction. 

It  was  a  pleasant  thing  to  come  again  into  the  open  city, 
to  get  up  and  out  of  those  cracks  of  the  earth.  There  was  a 
gentle  breeze  blowing  in  from  the  sea,  and  it  seemed  to  fan 
the  stars  into  a  fair  and  tender  light.  There  was  only  two  or 
three  opera  singers  near  enough  to  be  very  distinct ;  but  the 
train  of  little  mules  coming  down  the  mountain  with  their 
loads  of  milk  now  and  then  trumpeted  away  as  if  all  of 
Byron's  jackals  had  come  back  to  take  possession. 

Looking  up  the  Apennines  and  beyond  the  wall,  Murietta 
saw  a  thousand — nay,  ten  thousand — lights  on  the  mountain 
sides,  that  looked  down  upon  the  city  from  the  cottages  of 
.  men  who  trimmed  the  vines  or  tended  goats  upon  the  hills. 
Higher  and  higher  the  eye  followed  the  loftier  Apennines, 
further  and  fainter  shone  the  little  lights  from  the  grape- 
growers'  doors,  until  the  mountain-tops  were  lost  in  the 


Good- Bye,  Beautiful  Lady.  57 

distance  and  the  cottage  lights  were  lost  among  the 
stars. 

The  sun  came  suddenly  over  the  hill,  blew  out  the  little 
lights  of  the  cottages  and  the  little  lamps  up  in  the  purple 
heavens — and  it  was  morning  in  Genoa  ! 

"  Good-bye,  beautiful  lady  !  "  The  dreamer  stood  on  the 
deck  of  the  ship  as  she  foamed  through  the  opaline  sea,  and 
looked  sadly  back  and  kissed  his  hand  and  said, — 

"I  am  a  coward." 


CHAPTER  VII. 


NAPLES AN  OLD  LAND 
MARK. 

ALK  through  the  beauti 
ful  Villa  JSTazionale  •with 
your  face  towards  Vesu 
vius,    pass    the   Vittoria, 
and  on  under  a  mountain 
to  the  left  that  is  topped  with 
battlements  and  starred   all  up 
and  down  with   marble  houses 
of  magnificent  style  and  perfec 
tion,  and  you  wilt  meet  on  your 
way  some  of  the   most    beautiful,  as 
well  the  most  wicked,  women  in  the 
world. 

Pass  the  sharp  musketry  of  their 
dark  eyes  if  you  can  possibly  do  so, 
for  it  is  certainly  best  that  you  should  ; 
and  there,  under  this  mountain  that  almost  leans  over 
you  to  look  into  the  sea  at  your  feet,  you  will  come  upon 
an  old  castle  to  the  left,  which,  after  having  served  for  a 
palace  for  centuries,  is  now  simply  a  lodging-house ;  the 
dirtiest,  gloomiest,  lonesomest  lodging-house  in  all  Italy  ;  and 
that  is  saying  a  great  deal  indeed. 

The  great  Castel  dell'  Ova  lies  back  of  it,  a  little  to  your 
right,  with  the  sea  breaking  and  booming  quite  around  it  all 
the  time.  The  sea  is  always  troubled  there.  If  a  steamer 
goes  by,  the  sea  runs  with  its  trouble  right  to  the  old  castle, 
and  complains  and  complains  for  half  an  hour  at  a  time,  till 
a  greater  trouble,  in  the  form  of  an  ugly  piratical  sort  of  a 


Naples — An   Old  Landmark.         •  59 

steam-tug,  goes  groaning  by  with  a  long  kite's  tail  of  flat 
crafts  laden  with  freight  from  Heaven  knows  where. 

Then  the  sea  is  at  it  again,  lifting  up  its  hands,  clinging 
like  a  big  clumsy  baby  to  the  mossy  sea-washed  walls,  break 
ing  up  against  the  little  stone  causeway  that  reaches  over  to 
the  land  like  a  long  finger  making  fun  of  our  dingy  old  lodg 
ing-house. 

Then  the  wind  is  up  ! 

Ah  !  the  sea  laughs  a  little  at  first !  then  it  frowns,  then 
it  turns,  and,  like  a  dog,  shows  its  white  teeth  and  begins  to 
growl.  But  now  it  runs  away — this  sea  that  showed  fight  at 
first — and  goes  tearing  up  under  the  guns  of  the  castle,  and 
pale  and  white  and  all  in  tears,  it  tells  its  troubles  to  the 
Castel  dell'  Ova — the  gray  old  castle  that  sits  there  like  a 
graiidsire,  white  with  time.  Verily  the  sea  is  the  biggest 
coward  in  all  the  land  ! 

It  is  just  at  the  head  of  the  Strada  Lucia,  this  old  lodging- 
house,  that  has  been  in  turn  castle,  palace,  prison,  hotel,  and 
lodging-house.  It  is  built  right  into,  or  fastened  right  up 
against,  the  perpendicular  face  of  the  mountain,  topped  with 
a  fortress  where  music  plays  of  a  morning,  and  cannon  boom 
over  the  sea  at  sunset. 

You  enter  here,  and  pass  the  old  porter  asleep  in  his  little 
lodge  to  the  right,  all  unchallenged.  You  pass  on  and  at 
tempt  to  go  up  the  stairs,  and  there  a  porter  calls  to  you  loud 
and  sharp  enough.  It  is  a  red-faced  turkey,  tied  by  one  leg, 
and  kept  there — the  old  landlady  will  tell  you — to  waken  the 
other  porter  when  people  attempt  to  pass  up  the  stairs.  This 
explanation  is  necessary,  else  you  might  possibly  infer  that  the 
turkey  was  tied  there  because  of  his  wonderful  capacity  to 
gobble — a  talent  possessed  by  Italian  porters  to  an  eminent 
degree.  In  fact,  no  people  in  the  world  have  ever  carried 
such  arts  to  the  perfection  attained  by  the  Italian.  Live  in 
Italy,  travel  in  Italy,  and  you  will  soon  find  a  very  worldly 
reason  and  a  deal  of  wisdom  in  the  injunction  of  our  Saviour 


60  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

when  He  directed  His  disciples  to  take  with  them\no  second 
coat. 

You  stand  with  one  foot  on  the  step,  and  wait  for  the 
sleepy  porter  to  hobble  out  and  inspect  you,  as  if  you  were 
a  ship  about  to  enter  port,  and  he  was  a  health  officer. 

If  you  have  any  business  up  the  great  granite  stairs — wide 
enough  to  admit  a  carriage  to  pass,  and  dirty  enough  to  grow 
something  better  than  the  stray  bits  of  grass  that  have 
wedged  in  between  the  cracks — if  you  have  any  business  at 
all  up  there,  I  say,  you  simply  nod  to  the  nodding  porter,  the 
porter  grunts,  the  turkey  gobbles,  and  you  pass  on.  If  you 
have  no  business  up  there,  you  simply  give  the  sleepy  old 
man  half  a  franc,  and  pass  on  all  the  same. 

Up  !  up  !  up  !  You  are  in  the  crater  of  a  sort  of  Vesuvius, 
and  are  trying  to  get  out.  Fifth,  sixth,  seventh  floor  !  Old 
pictures,  every  one  of  them  with  a  Mount  Vesuvius  in  it, 
and  one  certainly  with  two  Mount  Vesuvius's — one  the 
mountain,  and  the  other  the  shadow  in  the  sea,  though  the 
sun  and  the  sea  are  quite  on  the  other  side !  and  you  begin  to 
feel,  or  rather  to  smell,  that  you  are  certainly  in  an  artistic 
atmosphere. 

All  these  dirty  little  rooms,  once  so  rich  and  beautiful,  and 
even  now  gorgeous  with  the  mosaics  and  frescos,  are  studios 
for  painters — very  poor  painters,  painters  just  beginning  and 
painters  just  ending,  old  men  and  young  men.  Men  there 
are  in  here  so  poor  that  they  borrow  each  other's  clothes 
when  they  go  out.  And  it  certainly  does  not  require  many 
clothes  to  go  out  in  in  Naples.  Men  here  always  pay  a  franc 
a-day  in  advance.  Four  or  five  of  them  are  sometimes 
tumbled  into  a  single  room.  i 

Some  of  them  are  poets ;  some  of  them  are  musicians. 
They  will  not  tell  you  they  live  here ;  they  in  fact  do  not 
live  here,  they  are  only  waiting  for  better  times.  They  work 
an  hour  or  two  in  the  day  if  they  have  anything  at  all  to  do, 
and  wait,  and  wait,  and  wait — and  so  life  passes  by.  Naples 


Naples — An   Old  Landmark.  61 

is  the  poorest  place  for  something  to  turn  up  in  outside  of  a 
tomb. 

An  aristocrat  had  recently  come  among  these  men.  A 
man  he  was,  this  new-comer,  this  rich  artist,  who  could 
really  pay  two  francs  a-day.  He  had  a  corner  room,  as  well 
as  another  receding  back  towards  the  bold  white  wall  of  the 
little  mountain  that  hung  over  the  old  castle.  This  lofty 
second-story  apartment  had  a  little  iron-railed  balcony  where 
two  persons  could  stand  together  and  look  over  the  crowded 
strada,  a  half  mile  underneath  down  into  the  sea. 

Standing  here  on  this  little  balcony,  holding  on  the  knob 
of  the  door  behind  you  in  half  fear  that  the  old  balcony 
might  break  loose  and  drop,  you  cotild  look,  as  it  sometimes 
seemed,  almost  down  into  the  smoking  crater  of  Vesuvius. 

It  is  a  beautiful  place.  Artists,  poor  as  they  are,  build, 
like  birds,  in  the  choicest  spots.  They  find  out  these  places 
with  an  intelligence  that  the  world  does  not  understand. 

Standing  on  these  little  iron-barred  balconies,  that  stand 
out  from  every  door  all  along  the  long  front  of  the  seventh 
story,  these  artists  drank  dry  the  Bay  of  Naples.  It  was  un 
derneath  them,  its  thousand  sails  in  the  sun  were  constantly 
raising  pictures  for  these  poor  children  of  art,  and  the  sun 
was  just  as  glorious  to  them  there,  the  air  just  as  sweet,  the 
sea  just  as  soft  and  silver,  set  and  sown  with  ships  as  beauti 
fully,  as  if  they  had  looked  from  this  palace  when  a  king  sat 
master  of  it. 

The  doors  of  these  two  rooms  were  never  locked.  There  was 
no  occasion  for  such  a  thing,  even  had  there  been  a  dishonest 
man  in  this  lofty  rookery  looking  down  into  Vesuvius  and 
the  Castel  dell'  Ova.  There  was  nothing  at  all  in  these 
rooms  but  a  box  of  paint  or  two,  brushes,  and  an  easel.  Men 
would  come  and  go,  in  and  out,  at  will,  lean  from  the  little 
balcony  when  the  smoke  came  up  from  Vesuvius,  or  see  the 
tawny  boatmen  draw  their  nets  in  the  Bay  ;  and  even  the 
man  whom  they  had  at  first  thought  an  intruder  into  their 


62  Rhe  One  Fair  Woman. 

sort  of  special  paradise,  did  not  seem  to  be  any  more  the 
master  of  the  place  than  the  others. 

Once  this  new-comer  rose  xip,  opened  the  door,  and,  stand 
ing  out  on  the  balcony,  turned  his  back  to  Vesuvius  and 
parted  his  coat-tails  as  a  man  does  when  standing  before  a 
great  log  fire  on  a  frosty  morning  in  the  West.  An  artist 
passing  the  open  door  looked  in,  and  laughed. 

In  the  course  of  a  short  time  a  little  picture  was  on  his 
easel. 

What  do  you  think  it  was  ?     What  could  it  have  been  ? 

It  was  the  picture  of  Annette.  It  could  not  have  been 
anything  else.  Down  in  the  corner  of  this  picture  there  was 
written  a  name — Murietta. 

There  was  some  little  surprise  among  the  artists  and  poets 
and  composers  and  musicians.  In  fact  the  little  over-full 
rookery  was  quite  in  a  flutter  for  half  an  hour.  Men  told  of 
the  artist's  presence  abroad. 

The  next  day  a  tall,  thin,  lean  man,  in  a  tall  napless  hat 
and  a  long,  threadbare  coat,  with  a  very  long  umbrella  under 
his  arm,  and  a  face  as  long  and  woful  and  faded  and  hard  and 
white  as  the  oldest  kind  of  a  tombstone,  passed  the  porter, 
passed  the  turkey,  who  evidently  held  him  in  too  imich  con 
tempt  to  gobble  at,  and  stood  before  the  young  artist,  bowing, 
bent  and  curved,  with  his  umbrella  under  his  arm,  and  look 
ing  just  as  though  he  might  be  an  Indian  bow,  and  this  long, 
thin,  hungry  umbrella,  so  poor  that  you  could  count  every 
rib  in  it,  an  arrow  drawn  up  to  the  head  as  if  about  to 
shoot. 

There  were  stray  gray  streaks  of  long  straight  hair  hanging 
down  about  this  tombstone  of  a  face  as  if  they  had  been  the 
long  leafless  twigs  of  a  weeping  willow  hanging  down  over 
this  monument  above  the  dead. 

The  tombstone  began  with  a  nasal  twang  that  showed  from 
whence  it  had  been  quarried. 

"  Sir,  I  have  read  your  '  Two  Years  before  the  Mast,'  and 


Naples — An   Old  Landmark.  63 

your  '  Innocents  Abroad,'  with  the  most  intense  satisfaction. 
And  I  have  come  to  pay  my  respects  to  the  genius  of  Boston, 
and  to  welcome  you  to  Naples." 

The  bow  twanged  with  a  flourish  as  it  shot  the  umbrella  in 
to  the  floor,  and  the  tombstone  lifted  straight  into  the  air  and 
set  its  thin  stony  lip,  and  looked  straight  at  the  artist  as  if  it 
dared  him  to  deny  it. 

"  But  I  am  a  painter." 

"  Ah,  a  painter  !  No  matter."  The  bow  was  bent  again, 
the  arrow  in  rest,  and  the  tombstone  again  bowed  low  with 
its  cluster  of  willow  twigs  bristling  all  around  it.  "  No  mat 
ter.  Genius  is  genius.  No  matter.  I  came  to  pay  my  re 
spects  to  genius.  Genius  in  any  form  is  genius,  and  I — and 
I " 

The  bow  slowly  relaxed,  for  the  tombstone  felt  that  it  had 
not  this  time  at  least  made  a  centre  shot,  and  it  lifted  a  hand 
and  brushed  the  willow  twigs  slowly  back  from  the  right  side 
of  the  marble  monument. 

"  I  have  been  in  Naples  nearly  thirty  years.  I  could  not 
leave  dear  Naples  now."  The  man  said  this  with  enthusiasm, 
and  Murietta  looked  at  his  coat  and  believed  him  as  certainly 
as  if  he  had  been  on  oath. 

"And  you  are " 

"  A  missionary.  I  am  "  — here  the  bow  was  again  bent  and 
the  arrow  jerked  into  rest  for  a  shot  at  the  artist — "  I  am, 
sir,  I  am  of  the  old  Puritan  stock  of  Plymouth  Rock.  We 
were  missionaries  five  hundred  years  ago.  I  was  born  a 
missionary,  a  missionary  I  will  die." 

The  bow  xinbent,  the  head  shut  up,  and  falling  sideways, 
the  eyes  closed,  the  hands  clasped,  and  the  umbrella  stuck 
still  in  rest,  tight  under  the  arm  and  elbow  of  the  missionary, 
and  aimed  right  out  into  the  eye  of  the  artist. 

"  Ah  !  and  you  are  getting  on,  then,  in  Naples  ?  " 

The  hands  unclasped,  the  arrow  shot  into  the  floor,  and 
the  head  shot  up, 


64  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  We  did  get  on ;  we  did  get  on."  The  arrow  shot  like  a 
little  thunderbolt  into  the  floor,  and  the  willow  twigs  about 
the  tombstone  trembled  as  if  a  wind  was  blowing  through 
the  railings.  "  We  did  get  on — until  that  cursed,  that  abom 
ination  of  the  Lord,  came  in  the  shape  of  the  Hard  Shell 
Baptist  Bible  and  Tract  Society  from  South  Boston.  I  knew 
them,  knew  them  every  one  at  home.  I  knew  that  this  was 
done  expressly  to  ruin  me  and  my  future,  and  put  an  axe  at 
the  very  root  of  my  work.  I  was  here  established  one 
month  and  three  days  before  they  had  established  themselves 
in  Naples.  I  gave  them  notice  at  once  when  they  came.  I 
told  them  that  the  seventh  article  in  their  practice  of  worship 
and  their  interpretations  of  certain  passages  of  the  Acts  of 
the  Apostles  were  not  to  be  tolerated.  They  answered  me 
with  scorn.  I  gave  them  notice  that  they  must  leave.  I 
laid  the  case  before  the  consul ;  and  a  war,  a  thirty  years' 
war,  ensued.  But  at  last  it  has  been  settled.  At  last  it  has 
come  before  the  General  Conference  of  the  Society  for  the 
Establishment  and  the  Maintenance  of  Foreign  Missions  in 
Heathen  Countries;  and  my  course,  I  am  advised,  will  be 
fully  approved  at  home,  and  I  am  to  be  sustained  abroad  in 
the  service. 

The  bow  was  bent  again,  but  the  tombstone  leaned  on  the 
arrow,  and  the  eyes  closed  as  the  head  fell  sideways,  and  the 
weeping  willows  moved  gracefully  about  the  old  white  monu 
ment. 

"  And  you  have  converted  some  ?  "  said  Murietta,  going  on 
steadily  with  his  work,  and  trying  to  shake  this  ghostly 
tombstone  from  its  pedestal  by  something  but  a  little  short 
of  incivility. 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes,  the  Lord  be  praised !  " 

The  little  thunderbolt  shot  into  the  floor,  and  the  face  of 
the  tombstone  took  on  a  smile  of  unutterable  satisfaction  as 
the  eyes  closed  and  the  head  fell  forward  and  peacefully  to 
one  side. 


Naples — An   Old  Landmark.  65 

"Yes,  one." 

"  Ah,  that  one  then  is  certainly  a  solace  and  companion  to 
you  in  your  labors  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  no.  The  devil  came  in  the  guise  of  that  other 
mission  from  Boston,  the  Hard  Shells.  They  offered  her 
better  living,  wine  twice  a  day,  polenta — plenty  of  polenta — 
and  she  became  converted  to  them  in  spite  of  their  fearful 
seventh  rule  and  form  of  practice  and  worship  and  unholy 
interpretation  of  certain  Acts  of  the  Apostles.  Twice  con 
verted  in  one  year  !  " 

The  head  fell  wofully  and  sadly  to  one  side,  the  tombstone 
looked  the  tombstone  indeed,  and  the  willows  waved  mourn 
fully  about  the  brows. 

"  Twice  converted  in  one  year.  It  was  too  much.  She  died. 
She  died,  and  then — don't  you  think — "  The  bow  sprang  up, 
the  arrow  shot  into  the  floor  with  a  force  that  made  the  tall 
tombstone  shake  and  the  willows  toss  as  if  in  a  wind.  "  And 
even  then  don't  you  think,  after  all  that  trouble  with  her, 
after  all  I  had  done,  the  ungrateful  little  minx  went  and 
called  in  a  Catholic  priest  at  the  last  minute,  and  died  and 
was  buried  a  Catholic,  was  buried  a  Catholic,  aud  went  to 
her  purgatory  in  spite  of  me  !  " 

Murietta  laughed  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart.  The  tomb 
stone  took  a  mournful  step  sideways  and  around  the  easel  as 
if  it  had  been  a  sort  of  crab,  and  looked  over  the  artist's 
shoulder. 

"  I  am  going  out  for  a  walk,"  said  the  artist. 

"  I  will  show  you  through  Naples,"  said  the  missionary. 

The  turkey  gobbled  his  "  all  right "  as  they  came  down, 
the  porter  rubbed  his  eyes  and  pretended  to  be  wide-awake, 
and  they  passed  on,  down  by  the  hundred  little  oyster-stands 
on  the  edge  of  the  Strada  Lucia,  ever  in  the  edge  of  the  sea, 
and  on  around  by  the  great  theatres,  by  the  splendid 
Piazza  del  Plebicito  to  the  Strada  Toledo. 

The  next  day  Murietta  was  in  his  studio  again  at  work. 


66  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

There  was  that  woman's  face  on  the  canvas  again.  It  was  a 
splendid,  dark,  dreamy  face.  Jt  seemed  to  move  before  you, 
to  pass  on,  to  look  back,  to  lead  you.  It  beckoned  from,  and 
belonged  to  the  future.  It  was  of  a  race  that  you  might 
imagine  but  would  never  find,  though  you  should  go  the 
whole  girdle  of  the  earth.  It  was  the  diviiiest  face  that  had 
ever  belonged  to  woman  since  the  blessed  Madonna.  Stand 
ing  before  it  as  it  looked  back  over  its  shoulder  from  the 
cloud  and  mystery,  from  the  future,  you  would  have  said  this 
face  is  as  the  face  of  woman  will  be  millions  of  ages  in  the 
years  to  come,  when  we  have  attained  to  perfection  on  earth. 

The  artist  had  painted  this  picture  because  he  could  not 
help  it.  It  had  always  been  in  his  mind.  It  was  no  new 
thing  when  it  carne  from  behind  the  canvas  as  it  were,  and 
stood  before  him.  He  had  seen  this  face  all  his  life.  It  was 
now  only  like  meeting  an  old  friend  after  a  few  days'  absence. 
He  painted  this  without  design  or  effort.  It  was,  as  it  were, 
the  work  of  a  day. 

But  he  put  this  picture  away  when  done.  He  did  not 
care  to  hear  the  remarks  of  other  men  upon  it.  Their  com 
ments,  good  or  bad,  would  jar  upon  his  gentle  nature. 
Besides,  he  felt  that  it  would  be  a  sort  of  a  sacrilege  to  let 
men  see  this  face.  Why  ?  Because  it  was  the  face  of  An 
nette,  the  one  fair  woman.  He  would  sometimes  take  this 
picture  out  from  under  the  mantle  which  he  had  thrown  over 
it  on  the  easel,  and  sit  before  it  for  hours  with  his  brush  in 
hand.  But  he  never  touched  it  any  more.  It  seemed  a  sort 
of  idol  too  sacred  to  touch. 

The  missionary,  or  doctor  as  he  claimed  to  be,  came  very 
often  now.  The  artist  had  shaken  him  off,  he  had  avoided 
him,  but  he  came  all  the  same,  the  same  singular,  half  insane 
enthusiast,  who  would  not  be  offended,  and  who  could  not 
offend  any  one  else,  and  perhaps  his  mortal  enemies,  the  Hard- 
Shell  Baptists  of  the  rival  foreign  mission  in  Naples  did  not 
fear  him. 


Naples — An   Old  Landmark.  67 

Yes,  lie  would  show  Marietta  the  city.  There  was  the 
wonderful  museum  with  the  autograph  of  St.  Thomas,  and 
all  the  charred  parchments  of  Herculaneum ;  and  all  the  ten 
thousand  things  found  in  the  excavations  of  the  buried  and 
half-unburied  cities.  Then  there  was  the  great  poor-house, 
the  largest  and  best  thing  of  the  kind  in  all  the  civilized 
world.  Then  there  was  the  tomb  of  Virgil. 

"  Come,"  cried  the  threadbare  man  one  bright  winter  morn 
ing,  after  having  passed  both  porters  unchallenged,  "  come, 
let  us  go  to  the  theatre  at  Herculaueum.  It  will  be  opened 
to-day.  It  has  been  closed  for  more  than  seventeen  hundred 
years ;  b\it  it  will  be  opened  to-day." 

"  Then  may  I  not  have  the  honor  of  conducting  you  to 
the  summit  of  Vesuvius?  It  is  necessary  that  you  have 
some  one  with  you;  some  Christian  to  protect  you  from  the 
reformed  and  unreformed  brigands.  I  can  show  you  how  to 
make  the  trip  in  a  gorgeous  way  on  twenty  francs  at  the  far 
thest.  Go  with  the  usual  guide  and  the  customary  crowd, 
and  it  will  cost  you  at  least  fifty.  You  see  we  will  take  the 
stage  at  Herculaneum  for  a  franc,  then  we  take  horses  for 
five  francs  up  to  the  hermitage,  and  beyond  that  we  walk  up 
the  great  ash  heat  of  about  half  a  mile  at  an  angle  of  forty-five 
degrees,  and  we  are  on  the  summit.  No  crowd,  no  rush,  no 
crush,  nothing.  You  will  have  the  whole  spectacle  to  your 
self,  and  then  you  will  not  be  robbed,  you  will  not  be  fleeced ; 
no  vulture  will  attempt  to  pick  your  bones." 

The  artist  laid  down  his  brush.  "  Come  to-morrow, 
doctor,  at  sunrise,  and  we  will  set  out  on  this  excursion  just 
as  you  propose."  The  man  turned  and  danced  about  till  his 
bones  fairly  rattled. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


ROSES    IN   HER   PATH. 

HAT  a  beautiful  morn 
ing  !  The  sea  lay  there 
in  the  sun  like  glittering 
gold.  The  smoke  curled 
over  the  summit  of  Vesu 
vius.  It  gleamed  and 
glanced  in  all  the  colors 
of  the  rainbow  as  the  two 
men  mounted  a  coach  and 
drove  about  the  bead  of 
the  Bay  of  Naples  toward  the  mountain 
of  fire. 

What  a  populous  city,  and  how  wide 
and  grand   and  beautiful  its  suburbs ! 
If  Naples  continues  to  build  so   like  a 
western  town  for  a  century  longer,  it 
will  reach  from  Pompeii  to  Pozzuola. 

What  a  yelling  of  men  as  the  artist  dismounted  !  They 
gathered  around  him  ten  deep.  They  laid  hold  of  him  and 
pulled  this  way  and  that,  and  yelled  and  shouted,  and  shook 
each  other  off,  and  elbowed  their  way  up  and  over  each  other, 
as  if  they  had  been  a  lot  of  street  dogs  in  a  fight. 

The  missionary  was  right.  These  fellows  would  literally 
pick  your  bones.  His  bones,  however,  for  good  and  sufficient 
reasons,  they  would  not  pick.  He  advanced  upon  these 
brigands  with  his  umbrella  in  a  sort  of  bayonet  charge,  and 
dispersed  them  as  if  he  had  been  a  Murat  at  the  head  of  a 
thousand  horse. 


flw 

I 

fl 


Roses  in  her  Path.  69 

Here  was  a  white-bearded  old  man  in  a  sheepskin,  who 
wanted  to  sell  a  staff  of  oak  to  be  used  in  climbing  Vesuvius. 
Five  centimes,  only  one  cent,  was  the  price  that  this  old 
merchant  asked  for  his  whole  stock  in  trade.  Murietta 
bought  him  out  at  a  single  purchase,  and  made  him  happy 
for  a  whole  day. 

Then  there  was  a  pirate,  or  brigand,  or  gypsy,  or  perhaps 
all  three,  who  had  a  great  knife,  which  he  said  he  had  made 
with  his  own  hand.  A  sharp,  bright,  ugly  customer  it  was. 
The  old  leather-clad  pirate,  or  brigand,  or  gypsy  wanted  to 
sell  this  to  the  artist.  The  old  merchant  protested  that  he- 
would  need  this  deadly  weapon  to  defend  himself  with  against 
the  wolves  on  the  mountain. 

Horses  !  Sheep  they  were.  Barefooted,  long-haired, 
limping  little  things,  no  larger  than  a  Mexican  mule.  There 
they  stood,  fifty  in  a  row.  Pay  your  money  and  take  your 
choice,  if  there  can  be  any  choice  between  these  bruised  and 
battered  and  long-haired  and  helpless  little  horses. 

Up  a  narrow  lane,  and  out  of  the  street,  up  a  road  that 
widened  soon  into  a  splendid  thoroughfare,  rising,  rising, 
rising  above  the  sea  and  above  the  city,  the  two  men  rode 
against  the  sun  as  it  pitched  down  into  their  faces  over  the 
summit  and  through  the  smoke  of  Vesuvius. 

A  splendid  carriage  road,  paved,  and  set  with  trees,  and 
with  fountains  on  the  way  where  you  can  stop  and  drink, 
lines  the  whole  route,  even  up  to  the  hermitage  away  up 
there,  almost  at  the  base  of  the  mighty  cone  of  fire,  and  great 
mountain  side  of  growing  grapes. 

That  hermitage,  or  rather  the  man  in  chai'ge  of  it,  has 
a  history.  When  the  mountain  was  pouring  out  rivers 
of  fire  a  few  years  since,  and  all  the  land  was  dark  with 
smoke,  this  man,  this  scientist,  placed  here  to  take  observa 
tions,  refused  to  leave  his  post. 

He  had  a  telegraph  connecting  with  the  city.  He  stood 
here  in  the  smoke  and  fire,  with  his  fingers  on  the  very  pulse 


70  The  One  Fair   Woman. 

of  Vesuvius  as  it  were,  telling  the  world  every  hour  what 
transpired,  and  what  he  beheld. 

At  last  the  river  of  lava,  half  a  mile  wide  and  a  hundred 
feet  deep,  pouring  down  to  the  plain  ran  within  a  pistol 
shot  of  the  hermitage.  The  heat  was  almost  intolerable. 
The  lone  man  stood  there  calmly  telling  all  that  happened  to 
the  world. 

At  last  the  river  of  lava  overflowed  on  the  mountain  above 
him,  and  flowing  on  as  if  it  would  swallow  him  up,  came  to 
within  fifty  yards  of  the  hermitage,  and  there  striking 
against  the  upper  part  of  the  promontory  on  which  the  her 
mitage  is  built,  poured  down  on  the  other  side. 

The  lone  man  had  now  a  river  of  fire  on  either  side  of  him. 
He  was  implored  to  come  down  to  Naples,  and  escape  certain 
death.  He  stood  there  with  his  finger  on  the  throbbing  pulse 
of  Mother  Earth,  and  refused  to  retreat. 

At  last  the  t\vo  rivers  of  lava  met  together  below  the  pro 
montory.  The  man  was  now  on  an  island  in  the  middle  of  a 
sea  of  fire,  and  flight  was  impossible.  Then  the  telegraph 
poles  were  swept  down,  and  they  heard  from  him  no  more. 
Months  after  that,  when  the  lava  grew  cool  enough  to  cross 
over  to  the  island,  they  found  the  old  man  had  done  all  his 
work  with  the  utmost  precision  and  minuteness,  and  buried 
the  products  in  a  small  copper  box  in  his  cellar.  And  he, 
the  bravest  old  man  ever  heard  of,  was  found  down  under  the 
hill,  where  there  was  a  little  soil,  planting  a  little  garden,  for 
his  provisions  were  gone,  and  he  was  well  nigh  starved. 

As  our  two  travellers  reached  this  hermitage  they  stopped, 
dismounted,  and  turned  to  look  on  the  world  below.  Ships 
on  the  bay  blew  in  and  out,  white  as  sea-gulls'  wings,  and 
their  sails  seemed  scarcely  larger.  The  great  city  of  Naples 
seemed  drawn  up  close  to  the  base  of  the  mountain.  The  sea 
seemed  to  be  almost  under  them. 

Suddenly  some  clouds  blew  in  between  them  and  the  sea. 
These  clouds  were  below  them.  The  thunder  growled  as  if  it 


Roses  in  her  Path.  71 

had  been  a  monstrous  beast  shut  up  in  the  lava  caves  be 
neath  their  feet. 

Then  there  was  lightning.  Then  the  clouds  rolled  black 
and  dense,  and  tumbled  like  seas  of  the  north. 

Then  the  lightning  wove  and  wound  below  them  as  if  running 
threads  of  fire  and  gold  in  this  woof  and  warp  of  storm  and 
of  darkness.  Then  stab,  stab,  stab  !  the  lightning  struck  in 
the  earth  as  if  angry  ;  and  the  thunder  boomed,  and  then  the 
great  white  rain,  the  high-born  beautiful  rain,  poured  down 
below  them,  and  then  all  was  light  and  bright  as  summer 
morning. 

Out  of  this  rain  rode  a  lady.  She  had  a  better  horse  than 
was  to  be  had  of  the  brigands  below,  and  she  sat  it  as  if  she 
had  been  born  in  the  saddle.  She  led  her  party,  and  an  old 
man,  a  tall  man  with  a  severe  face  who  might  have  been  her 
father,  rode  at  her  side. 

Marietta  mounted  and  rode  on  as  he  saw  her  ride  out  of 
the  cloud  and  rain  up  one  of  the  terraced  turns  of  the  tortuous 
road  below,  for  he  had  no  desire  to  be  disturbed  that  day 
by  the  presence  of  strangers. 

Peasants  were  coming  down  in  parties,  bearing  wood  on 
asses,  all  along  the  road,  and  baskets  of  flowers  on  their  heads. 
Wild,  splendid-looking  women  they  were,  and  polite  as  if 
bred  at  court.  Right  and  left  were  high -heaved  masses  of 
lava  in  all  conceivable  shapes,  and  over  these  ugly  masses 
ivies  were  climbing  and  twining  tenderly,  as  if  to  hide  them 
from  sight. 

Here  and  there  the  smoke  came  curling  up  through  fis 
sures  in  the  road.  And  over  there,  to  the  right,  the  smoke 
curled  up  as  if  from  many  wigwams.  Yet  all  over  this  grew 
roses  and  grapes,  and  olives  and  oranges,  and  fruits  of  the 
four  parts  of  the  world. 

A  beautiful  peasant  girl  arcmsed  the  sensitive  mind  of  the 
artist  witli  the  present  of.  a  beautiful  forest  rose  from  the  bas 
ketful  which  she  bore  on  her  head. 


72  The  One  Fair    Woman. 

The  artist  handed  her  a  franc.  Then  the  grateful  girl  reach 
ed  him  the  whole  basketful,  for  he  had  given  her  thrice  the 
price  of  it.  He  took  the  fragrant  and  beautiful  basket  up  be 
fore  him,  smiled,  and  wondered  what  in  the  world  he  would 
do  with  it. 

There  had  been  some  delay,  and  fearing  lest  the  party  led 
by  the  lady  might  be  drawing  very  near,  he  looked  back  down 
the  road  over  his  shoulder.  They  were  indeed  very  near, 
but  he  could  not  see  the  lady  well  for  the  vines  and  trees  by 
the  tortuous  road. 

What  shall  be  done  with  the  roses  ?  He  must  ride  on  or 
the  strange  lady  will  be  upon  them.  He  lifted  a  handful  and 
breathed  their  fragrance,  and  then  let  them  fall  in  the  road. 
A  thought  came  like  an  inspiration.  The  doctor  was  in  ad 
vance  awaiting  him. 

"  I  will  scatter  roses  in  the  path  of  that  stranger.  In  the 
way  of  that  brave,  lone  woman,  whoever  she  may  be,  I  will 
strew  roses  and  wish  that  there  shall  be  never  a  thorn.  Here 
on  this  mountain  of  fire,  in  this  strange  land,  in  a  pilgrim's 
%path,  a  pilgrim  shall  scatter  roses."  And  then  the  man  rode 
on  slowly  and  lifted  the  roses  by  the  handful  and  scattered 
them  in  the  pleasant  Roman  road,  in  the  path  of  the  strange 
woman,  while  the  pretty  peasant  girl,  who  seemed  to  under 
stand  and  sympathize  with  the  sentiment  and  admire  his 
strange  fancy,  ran  beside  him,  showing  her  pretty  teeth  and 
shaking  out  her  abundant  hair. 

The  artist  emptied  the  basket,  handed  it  to  the  girl,  but 
did  not  dare  look  back  lest  he  should  see  the  strangers  face  to 
face,  and  possibly  be  recognized  and  perhaps  be  misunder 
stood.  He  put  spurs  to  the  little  pony,  rode  on,  and  joined 
the  sedate  doctor  of  divinity. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


ON    THE    MOUNTAIN    OF    FIRE. 


HERE  in  the  valley  over  the 
left  shoulder,  as  you  climb 
up  toward  the  cone  of  ashes, 
lies  the  little  newly-destroyed 
town  of  St.  Sebastian.  In 
one  of  the  houses  you  see  two 
pictures  still  hanging  on  the 
wall.  The  lava  has  surround 
ed  the  house  and  locked  the 
doors,  and  you  stand  on  the  lava  and 
look  in  through  a  little  window. 

This  lava  cuts  some  strange  freaks. 
In  another  cottage  of  St.  Sebastian 
you  see  where  it  has  climbed  up  to 
the  window,  pushed  itself  through 
many  feet,  and  then  curved  down  and 
cooled ;  and  there  it  stands,  with  its 

nose  stuck  into  the  poor  cotter's  house,  reaching  out  black 
and  crooked  like  the  trunk  of  some  great  elephant. 

After  a  pleasant  ride  of  only  three  hours,  all  told,  from 
Naples,  they  came  to  the  steep  and  stupendous  base  of  the 
great  ashen  cone  or  pyramid.  The  missionary  spurred  his 
little  horse  boldly  against  the  mountain  till  he  sank  in  the 
ashes  to  his  knees  ;  then  he  took  his  long,  lean,  hungry-look 
ing  umbrella  from  under  his  arm,  dismounted,  and  they 


74  The   One  Fair    Woman. 

began  slowly  to  walk  up  the  soft  and  uncertain  road  of  ashes. 
How  they  were  assailed  by  guides  and  beggars  at  the  base  ! 

Half-naked,  brown,  long-haired  and  hard-looking  fellows 
they  were,  to  be  sure.  They  had  ropes  fastened  round  their 
waists,  and  would  run  before  the  travellers  and  almost  com 
pel  them  to  lay  hold  of  those  ropes  for  support.  But  these 
two  had  set  out  to  make  a  little  trip  alone  and  unassisted,  and 
so  they  did  to  the  end. 

The  other  party  came  up  as  the  two  ascended  the  cone,  and 
one  of  the  gentlemen  was  carried  up  in  a  chair  by  eight  of 
these  half- wild  men  ;  but  the  lady  laid  hold  of  ropes,  and, 
tucking  her  dress  up  prettily  under  her  waist,  came  boldly  on 
at  the  head  of  her  party. 

The  ascent  here  is  steep,  very  steep  indeed,  and  you  sink 
into  the  ashes  and  advance  very  slowly.  You  find  it  very 
much  like  walking  over  a  field  of  newly-ploughed  ground, 
only  here  the  field  seems  to  be  set  pretty  nearly  up  on  its 
edge. 

After  an  hour  of  not  unpleasant  climbing,  they  sat  down 
with  a  gentle  brigand,  who  had  some  wine  in  a  basket,  which 
he  called  by  the  pretty  name  of  Lachrymse  Christi  ;  and, 
emptying  one  of  the  bottles,  they  again  looked  below. 

Naples  seemed  nearer  than  ever;  and  the  ships  sailed 
right  up  against  the  base  of  Vesuvius  as  it  seemed,  and  wound 
and  wove  over  the  bluish  bay  in  a  dreamy  sort  of  a  way,  that 
seemed  almost  supernatural  and  certainly  indescribable.  To 
the  right  and  left  lay  little  white  towns  dotted  over  the 
plains,  and  below  them  the  white  houses  looked  like  flocks 
huddled  together,  and  at  rest. 

Away,  away  at  sea  the  little  fishing  boats,  with  their 
snowy  sails,  looked  like  swarms  of  swallows  blowing  idly  in 
the  sun. 

Another  hour  up  this  field  of  ploughed  land  set  up  on  its 
edge,  and  the  ground  grows  very  warm  to  the  feet.  Then 
you  come  upon  little  seams  and  puffs  of  smoke  curling  lazily 


On  the  Mountain  of  Fire.  75 

out  from  under  the  clods  beneath  you.  Then  you  begin  to 
smell  sulphur,  and  coal,  and  tar,  and  turpentine,  and  almost 
every  other  odor  that  you  can  conceive  of. 

As  you  approach  the  crater,  which  is  exactly  on  the  sum 
mit,  you  are  all  the  time  reminded  of  a  mighty  coal-pit ;  such 
a  coal-pit  as  you  see  on  the  banks  of  the  Ohio  and  elsewhere 
out  West,  where  the  woodmen  burn  charcoal.  Only,  of 
course,  it  is  multiplied  by  all  the  figures  in  the  arithmetic. 

The  smoke  is  rather  dense  and  quite  unpleasant  to  inhale ; 
but  as  there  is  always  a  current  of  wind  blowing  from  the 
sea,  you  can  always  get  more  or  less  fresh  air  and  do  not  suffer. 

It  is  certainly  very  hot  as  you  draw  nearer  to  the  crater  ; 
and  the  ploughed  land  seems  to  be  ploughed  a  great  deal 
deeper,  and  to  be  sowed  and  planted  with  fire,  which  seemed 
to  be  coming  up  in  a  first-rate  crop. 

And  now  after  two  hours  and  a  half,  suddenly  and  almost 
before  they  expected  it,  they  stood  by  the  great  crater  of  the 
New  "Vesuvius. 

The  first  view  of  this  chasm  of  smoke  and  fire  is  awful  in 
the  extreme.  Broad  and  bottomless,  round  and  vast,  boiling 
and  seething,  it  seems  alive  and  full  of  pent-up  strength. 

You  can  hear  the  monster  breathe.  You  stand,  you  lean 
over,  you  look  down,  down  into  the  monster's  open  mouth — 
the  monster  that  has  swallowed  up  cities  and  even  seas — and 
you  are  mute  with  awe  and  wonder.  You  feel  a  fascination 
and  desire  that  you  hope  never  to  feel  again.  It  is  an  im 
pulse,  almost  irresistible,  to  leap  into  this  awful  glowing 
mouth  of  restless  Mother  Earth,  and  become  a  part  of  the 
grand  spectacle  before  you. 

You  feel  a  little  tinge  of  this  on  first  looking  down  into 
Niagara,  and  something  more  of  it  on  coming  upon  Yose- 
mite  ;  but  nothing  half  so  maddening  as  this  feeling  on  com 
ing  suddenly  into  the  very  jaws  of  Vesuvius.  You  can  then 
and  there  well  believe  that  men  have  indeed  ascended  this 
mountain  and  never  returned. 


76  The  One  Fair    Woman. 

The  yellow  smoke  curls  lazily  about  the  rim  of  the  crater 
at  your  feet ;  but  the  opposite  side  of  the  vast  round  and 
hollowed  mountain,  half  a  mile  away,  stands  up  before  you 
clear  and  fair  as  pictures  on  a  wall. 

It  is  sometimes  perfectly  clear  of  smoke  and  flame.  At 
such  times  you  see  an  unbroken  perpendicular  wall  away 
down,  almost  a  mile  down  into  this  mountain,  made  light 
and  bright  with  fires  from  below,  and  yoxi  see  little  moun 
tains  of  flame  and  sulphur  at  the  very  bottom. 

Surely  here  are  colors  that  no  man  has  named. 

That  wall  that  stands  over  opposite  is  painted,  lined,  hung, 
barred  and  starred  by  all  the  known  colors,  crossing,  blend 
ing  into  each  other,  or  standing  out  boldly  and  alone  in  per 
fect  garden  plots  of  yellow,  green,  red  and  all  other  known 
and  unknown,  named  and  unnamed  hues.  Mighty  frescos 
miles  and  miles  in  depth  perhaps,  and  wide  as  the  walls  of  a 
city. 

Even  the  reverend  doctor  was  overcome.  For  the  first 
time  Marietta  now  saw  him  perfectly  silent.  lie  held  tight 
on  to  his  umbrella,  but  lie  stood  up  straight  and  tall  as  a 
flagstaff  on  the  American  Fourth  of  July. 

The  guide  kept  all  the  time  insisting  on  standing  between 
them  and  the  rim  of  the  crater,  which  he  informed  them  was 
all  the  time  shelving  off  and  falling  in.  And — shall  I  con 
fess  it  ? — after  Marietta  had  got  partly  over  his  desire  to 
leap  into  the  crater,  he  was  seized  with  an  \inaccountable 
desire  to  push  this  fellow  in  backward  as  he  stood  before  them. 

Surely  there  is  something  devilish  in  the  atmosphere  of 
Vesuvius.  Possibly  this  is  why  the  Neapolitans,  as  a  people, 
are  so  utterly  base  and  depraved. 

After  a  time  they  loosened  some  stones  that  lay  on  the  rim 
of  the  crater.  The  doctor  held  his  breath.  Marietta  held 
his  watch,  and  noted  the  time  that  went  by  from  the  moment 
the  stones  were  loosened  till  the  last  sound  came  up  from  the 
fiery  depths. 


On  the  Mountain  of  Fire.  77 

Rumble !  rumble  !  rumble  !  Crash  !  Thud  !  Boom  !  There 
was  the  sound  of  an  avalanche  away  down  in  the  depths  of 
the  crater,  among  the  mountains  of  sulphur  and  flame.  And 
then  the  smoke  rolled  up  in  double  and  treble  density. 

They  had  loosened  blocks  and  comers  of  the  shelving 
crater,  and  old  Vesuvius  was  very  angry. 

After  that  they  could  scarcely  see  anything  in  the  crater 
at  all.  It  was  something  to  be  able  to  stir  up  this  old  mon 
ster,  and  make  him  howl  and  fume  at  will. 

Then  they  started  on  the  circuit  of  the  crater.  It  is  a 
little  trail  carefully  cleared  out  by  the  guides,  is  about  two 
feet  wide,  and  lies  immediately  on  the  rim. 

If  you  choose  to  step  six  inches  to  your  left  as  you  advance 
your  friends  can  have  the  funeral  services  preached  either  in 
New  York  or  San  Francisco,  as  they  see  fit.  The  undertaker, 
however,  will  find  but  little  profit  in  your  loss. 

Marietta  knew  perfectly  well  that  the  doctor  wanted  to  go 
back  before  they  got  fairly  started.  He  was  as  certain  of  this 
as  he  was  that  the  doctor  turned  his  head  over  his  shoulder 
and  said,  "  If  anything  happens,  my  mother's  address  is 
Chestnut  Street,  Boston."  But  they  kept  on.  Murietta  lit 
his  cigar  by  one  of  the  eternal  and  infernal  furnaces  on  the 
rim  of  the  crater,  and  also  burnt  his  fingers  in  the  achieve 
ment.  What  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  scientific  keeps  the 
flame  so  near  the  surface  one  cannot  conceive.  Yoti  cannot 
see  what  the  flames  feed  upon.  You  may  have  seen  many 
volcanoes  and  looked  into  many  craters  on  the  Pacific  side  of 
America,  but  never  anything  like  this. 

They  passed  on  around  to  the  other  side,  describing  a  half- 
moon  in  their  half- hour's  walk,  and  now  stood  on  the  ex 
treme  summit  of  that  portion  of  the  mountain  which  has 
been  formed  by  the  various  eruptions  of  the  last  eighteen 
centuries. 

Standing  here  you  can  distinctly  see  all  the  outlines  of  the 
great  crater  of  A.D.  78,  which  was  formed  when  the  cities 


78  The  One  Fair   Woman. 

were  overwhelmed.  That  crater  was  many  miles  in  circum- 
fei'ence,  but  the  mountain  was  not  nearly  so  high  then  as  now. 
This  present  crater,  remember,  is  in  the  centre  of  a  vast  ash- 
heap  or  cone,  which  has  risen  out  of  the  centre  of  the  great 
crater  of  78.  This  present  pyramid  is  the  work  of  nearly 
two  thousand  years. 

Standing  here  you  get  a  perfect  knowledge  of  all  the  sur 
roundings  of  this  wonderful  mountain.  You  have  wondered 
what  were  its  relations  with  other  mountains.  You  now  find 
that  it  has  none  whatever.  You  see  that  it  is  built  in  an 
open  plain,  as  if  man  had  been  building  another  and  a 
mightier  pyramid.  It  stands  in  a  plain  four  or  five  miles  back 
from  the  sea,  and  as  perfectly  alone  as  if  it  were  an  isle  in 
mid-ocean.  As  you  stand  here  you  can  see  every  foot  of  the 
plain  surrounding  the  great  volcano.  You  can  count  at  least 
a  hundred  cities  and  villages  in  sight. 

You  may  take  a  carriage  in  Naples  and  drive  quite  around 
Mount  Vesuvius  and  be  back  to  your  hotel  in  time  for  din 
ner,  Avithout  going  up  or  down  any  hills  at  all.  Vesuvius 
is  a  growth  of  the  level  plain.  One  can  very  well  fancy  that 
the  lazy  Italian  in  the  remote  past  tended  his  flocks  on  the 
spot  where  the  mountain  now  stands,  or  lay  gracefully  down 
on  his  load  of  cabbages  heaped  on  the  back  of  his  little  mule, 
and  slept  peacefully  on  his  way  to  market — just  as  he  docs 
even  to  this  day. 

The  doctor  and  Murietta  could  advance  no  farther  than 
where  they  now  stood.  You  are  told  by  guides  and  guide 
books  that  you  can  walk  quite  around  the  crater  ;  but  they 
now  found  they  could  just  about  as  easily  cross  "the  impass 
able  gulf."  At  their  feet,  in  a  canon  more  than  half  a  mile 
in  depth,  lay  the  bed  of  the  St.  Sebastian  stream  of  lava,  still 
smoking  and  burning  in  its  rocky  sulphurous  bottom. 

You  must  bear  in  mind  that  in  1871  the  whole  character 
of  the  mountain  was  changed.  A  gap  was  broken  through 
the  southern  rim  of  the  old  crater,  and  through  this  flowed  a 


On  the  Mountain  of  Fire.  79 

stream  of  lava  which,  at  a  rough  calculation,  you  may  say  is 
a  hundred  feet  deep,  half  a  mile  wide,  and  five  miles  long. 

There  it  lies,  a  great,  black,  crooked  serpent,  crawling  out 
of  the  crater  of  Vesuvius,  stealing  down  into  the  garden  of 
the  plain.  Its  ugly  head  is  buried  in  the  pretty  little  village 
of  St.  Sebastian. 

Before  returning,  tho  doctor  insisted  on  loosening  one 
more  big  stone  that  hung  on  the  edge  of  the  crater.  The 
guide  remonstrated,  saying  that  it  was  too  broken,  and 
dangerous ;  but  the  doctor  got  down  on  his  hands  and  knees, 
and  then  straightened  out.  He  was  so  long  and  so  thin  and 
so  straight,  he  looked  as  if  he  had  originally  been  made  for 
a  poker.  He  was  now  doing  service  as  a  crowbar.  He 
struck  out  with  his  feet,  fastened  them  against  the  heap  of 
lava  which  he  wished  to  loosen,  as  if  his  legs  had  been  hand 
spikes,  and  began  to  push  heavily  at  the  stone.  It  gave  signs 
of  yielding. 

"  Look  at  your  watch  !  "  cried  the  doctor, 

Murietta  looked  at  his  watch.  "  Now  !  "  cried  the  doctor ; 
and  he  drew  up  his  long  thin  legs  and  kicked  with  all  his 
might. 

The  stone  gave  way.  There  was  a  loose  rattling  of  other 
stones  ;  then  a  shelving,  sliding,  rumbling  ;  then  a  long  thin 
man  flat  on  his  belly,  with  a  face  white  as  a  ghost,  clutching 
and  scrambling  in  the  dust  and  ashes  for  life. 

He  writhed  and  wriggled,  and  clutched  and  sci-ambled,  but 
he  seemed  to  be  losing  ground  and  going  down  slowly  and 
surely  into  the  terrible  gulf  of  fire.  The  steep  ashen  slope 
of  the  mountain  seemed  to  slide  away  and  draw  him  in  faster 
than  he  could  by  any  possible  effort  draw  himself  out.  He 
looked  like  some  great  black  lizard  writhing  in  a  heap  of  hot 
ashes. 

It  seemed  that  the  ashes  would  never  stop  shelving  and 
sliding !  It  seemed  as  if  the  long  thin  man  would  never 
again  get  on  his  feet !  Murietta  reached  him  his  staff;  but 


8o  The   One  Fair    Woman. 

he  had  not  time  to  lay  hold.  As  fast  as  he  crawled  and 
scrambled  up,  the  crater  drew  him  back  ;  and  both  his  hands 
and  feet  were  busy  as  a  crab's.  As  for  the  guide,  he  ran 
away — as  they  usually  do  when  most  needed. 

All  this  of  course  was  done  in  an  instant.  But  to  the  doc 
tor  and  Murietta  it  seemed  to  be  much  the  biggest  half  of 
that  day. 

At  last  there  was  a  kind  of  compromise,  a  sort  of  mutual 
suspension  of  operations.  The  doctor  grew  too  exhausted  to 
kick  or  scramble,  and  it  seemed  as  he  ceased  to  kick  and 
scramble  that  the  earth  ceased  to  shelve  and  give  way  ;  and 
Murietta  now  got  him  by  the  coat  sleeve,  and  drew  him  up 
out  of  the  crater,  nearly  suffocated  with  dust  and  ashes. 

He  sat  down  in  the  path,  and  looked  silently  round.  His 
hands  were  bleeding,  but  he  said  nothing  whatever.  In  his 
coat  of  sackcloth  and  ashes,  he  looked  very  much  like  a  mouse 
that  has  just  escaped  from  a  bag  of  meal. 

"  What  did  you  say  was  your  mother's  address  ?  "  at  last 
asked  Murietta,  to  rouse  his  spirits,  in  a  sort  of  banter.  But 
the  doctor,  who  had  now  risen  to  his  feet  preparatory  to  the 
return,  was  busy  brushing  the  ashes  from  his  coat,  and  pre 
tended  not  to  hear. 

It  was  a  gloomy  and  solemn  walk  back  on  their  half-moon 
circuit,  but  they  reached  the  spot  at  last,  and  buying  some 
eggs  of  a  half-naked  peasant  lad,  they  cooked  them  over  the 
fires  of  Vesuvius  and  extemporized  a  dinner,  after  which  the 
doctor  was  ready  to  return. 

As  they  were  about  to  descend,  there  came  up  out  of  the 
smoke  a  tall  and  beautiful  lady,  with  a  party  of  English  and 
American  tourists. 

She  seemed  to  lead  them,  for  she  came  on,  dimly  seen 
through  the  smoke,  ahead  of  all  the  party.  How  tall  and 
superb  she  seemed  as  seen  through  the  curling  smoke  that 
wreathed  about  her  form  as  she  advanced.  She  seemed  as 
if  she  was  borne  in  a  chariot  of  tire  ! 


On  the  Mountain  of  Fire.  8 1 

At  first  only  her  form  was  visible ;  and  Marietta  stood 
contemplating  her  from  a  distance  with  awe  and  wonder. 
How  tall  she  was !  how  graceful  she  moved  !  She  seemed 
to  ride  on  the  rising  clouds  of  smoke  that  curled  about  her 
dark  mantle.  She  came  on  but  slowly,  np  the  steep  and 
stupendous  field  of  fire,  and  Murietta  felt  an  almost  irresistible 
desire  to  go  down  and  lead  her  to  the  summit. 

At  last  through  the  smoke  he  saw  dimly  behind  her  the 
faces  of  others.  Only  their  faces  were  seen  through  the 
clouds  of  smoke,  and  it  gave  them  a  weird  and  unearthly  ap 
pearance.  Their  feet  and  forms  were  hidden  in  the  smoke 
that  curled  up  from  out  a  thousand  pores  and  fissures  of  the 
earth  ;  but  their  faces  lifted  above  this  and  they  seemed  to  be 
floating  in  the  air.  They  looked,  back  there  in  the  dim, 
drifting,  shifting  clouds,  as  if  they  Avere  spirits  following 
always  after,  and  attending  on  the  tall  and  wonderful  woman 
in  black  who  was  just  now  emerging  from  the  smoke,  and 
turning  the  crest  of  the  pyramid. 

Murietta  had  resolved  to  go  forward  and  oifer  her  his  arm. 
He  took  a  step  forward  as  she  emerged  from  the  smoke. 
Then  he  saw  her  face  fairly  and  fully  for  the  first  time,  and 
stepped  back,  turned  his  head,  and  hurried  away  to  one  side. 
His  heart  beat  with  a  mad  and  intense  delight. 

It  was  Annette,  the  one  fair  woman  !  At  last  he  had 
again  looked  upon  the  one  woman  of  all  the  world  for  whom 
he  had  waited,  and  the  woman  who  had  visited  him  for  years 
and  years  in  his  dreams. 

She  stood  at  last,  as  he  shrank  back  into  the  smoke,  up  on 
the  topmost  rim  of  the  pyramid  in  the  full  light,  leaning  on 
her  staff,  resting  there,  looking  down  into  that  matchless  and 
magnificent  panorama  of  colors  and  the  awful  commotion  of 
the  elements. 

She  was  silent  as  before.     Her  brows  lifted,  a  hand  passed 
back  the  splendor  of    midnight  hair  that  blew  loosely  about 
her  shoulders,  but  she  did  not  speak. 
4* 


82  The  One  Fair   Woman. 

How  fitting  it  was  that  she  should  stand  alone !  Murietta 
clasped  his  hands  and  bent  his  knees  till  they  touched  the 
steep  side  of  the  mountain  where  he  stood,  and  he  lifted  his 
face  in  gratitude  to  God. 

This  to  him  was  the  most  perfect  moment  that  he  had  ever 
known.  It  was  a  moment  large  and  full  and  rich  to  over 
flowing.  He  felt  that  it  was  such  a  time,  such  a  scene,  such 
a  combination  of  grandeur  and  beauty  and  splendor,  so  much 
of  history,  of  love,  of  poetry — the  past,  the  present,  the  fu 
ture — as  he  had  not  found  before.  It  was  such  a  scene,  he 
thought,  as  his  soul  had  aspired  to  from  the  first  dawning  of 
his  adoration  for  things  that  are  divine. 

Still  clasping  his  hands,  he  bent  his  head,  and  said  softly 
to  himself: 

"I — I  scattered  roses  in  her  path!  It  is  a  good  ornen. 
I  scattered  roses  in  your  path,  oh,  beautiful  and  divinest  of 
women,  without  knowing  that  it  was  you  !  Some  day  I  will 
tell  you  this,  and  you  will  look  at  me  and  will  not  be  dis 
pleased." 

The  lady  moved.  He  was  afraid  he  would  be  seen.  He 
hastily  arose  and  fell  back  further  in  the  smoke  and  down 
the  mountain  almost  out  of  sight.  He  had  sooner  dared  go 
into  the  presence  of  the  Madonna,  had  she  stood  there  on 
the  crest  of  the  mountain  invoking  the  Deity. 

The  doctor  and  guide  came  down  and  stood  with  him  as  if 
ready  to  descend. 

Murietta  looked  up  once  more.  The  beautiful  woman  was 
moving  along  the  rim  of  the  mountain  now  in  the  midst  of 
her  party. 

"  I  scattered  roses  in  her  path  !  "  he  kept  saying  to  him 
self,  and  thanking  Heaven  for  the  happy  thought  and  the 
happy  opportunity  that  had  led  him  to  do  this  little  service 
for  the  only  woman  he  had  ever  really  loved,  or  now  could 
ever  love. 

He   was   the   happiest   man   in   all   that   happy   land   of 


On  the  Mountain  of  Fire.  83 

happy,  happy  people.  Never  had  the  sun  looked  down  so 
soft  and  golden  and  glorious  as  it  did  now.  Never  had  fair 
Italy  seemed  half  so  fair  as  at  this  hour.  His  heart  was  full 
of  gratitude,  and  all  things  seemed  fair  and  good,  and  full  of 
hope  and  happiness. 

"  I  scattered  roses  in  her  path  ! "  he  said,  and  peered 
among  the  clouds  of  smoke  that  curled  about  his  face  as  if 
they  had  been  blowing  curtains,  as  if  to  see  her  still  more 
perfectly. 

Then  the  clouds  blew  low  and  close  to  the  ground,  and  left 
him  quite  unveiled  before  her.  He  turned  hastily  and  half 
frightened  down  the  mountain,  as  if  he  had  stolen  into  Para 
dise  and  was  afraid  of  being  seen. 

"  I  scattered  roses  in  her  path  !  "  he  said  again,  and  still 
kept  watching  her,  and  retired  slowly  down  the  mountain, 
and  deeper  into  the  smoke,  as  if  to  be  certain  he  could  not 
be  seen. 

"  I  scattered  roses  in  her  path  !  Will  she  follow  me  down 
here  ?  Perhaps  she  will  come  directly  down  this  way  !  Then 
I  shall  be  covered  with  confusion.  Possibly  I  shall  leap  down 
this  precipice  into  the  chasm  of  St.  Sebastian.  O,  if  it  would 
please  her,  if  rather  she  would  weep  and  think  of  me,  I  would 
leap  into  the  depths  of  Vesuvius  !  " 

"  I  scattered  roses  in  her  path  !  "  Poor  man,  she  had  not 
seen  him  or  thought  of  him  at  all  !  Such  is  life — such  is 
love. 

No  one  attempted  to  go  round  to  the  other  side  of  the 
crater  again  that  day.  The  smoke  was  now  rolling  dark, 
thick,  and  threatening,  and  the  new-comers  decided  to  return 
to  the  plain. 

Seeing  that  the  fair  lady  was  about  to  return,  and  from, 
some  unexplained  timidity  fearing  above  all  things  to  meet 
her  then,  Murietta  led  the  way,  and  descended  by  a  more 
steep  and  direct  route,  the  great  ash-heap  moving  with  them 
as  they  strode  down  with  steps  that  had  amazed  the  giants. 


84  The  One  Fair    Woman. 

There  is  nothing  more  exhilarating  and  exciting  than  this 
descent.  It  is  much  like  going  down  a  very  precipitous 
mountain  after  a  deep  fall  of  snow,  when  the  new  snow  moves 
down  the  mountain  in  little  avalanches  with  you.  In  a  few 
minutes  they  were  mounted  and  on  their  return  to  town. 

"  I  scattered  roses  in  her  path  ! "  Murietta  murmured  that 
night  as  he  rode  home  around  the  Bay  of  Naples,  and  watched 
the  stars  down  in  the  water,  and  heard  the  fishermen  singing 
far  out  as  they  lay  at  rest  under  the  white  wings  of  their 
fishing  boats. 

A  cripple,  with  his  legs  in  the  air  and  his  hands  where  his 
feet  should  be,  rolled  in  the  dusty  road  before  him. 

"  Poor  man  !  poor  man  !     How  miserable  he  must  be  !  " 

Murietta  put  his  hand  in  his  vest  pocket,  and  drawing  out 
a  roll  of  little  notes,  scattered  a  perfect  snowstorm  of  francs 
before  the  wretch  as  he  rode  on — as  if  he  was  still  scatter 
ing  roses  in  the  path  of  the  woman  he  loved. 

Then  the  two  rode  on  as  the  polite  captain  of  police  gave 
a  kind  salute,  and  under  the  guns  of  the  old  city  wall  before 
which  Garibaldi  rode  as  the  matches  burned  in  the  timid 
hands  of  the  king's  guards,  they  passed  and  entered  Naples — 
and  one  all  the  time  was  saying  to  himself: 

"  I  scattered  roses  in  her  path  !     It  is  a  good  omen." 

That  night  as  he  slept  he  could  see  only  this  tall,  dark 
•woman  towering  above  the  smoke  and  fire  of  Vesuvius,  and 
all  the  time  he  kept  thinking  of,  and  thanking  God  for  the 
roses. 

It  is  remarkable  how  constantly,  and  all  the  time,  one 
turns  to  look  at  Vesuvius  when  in  this  part  of  Italy.  You 
see  people — people  who  were  born  in  Naples,  perhaps — 
standing  in  the  street  staring  up  at  the  gray  and  grizzled 
mountain.  No  matter  on  which  side  of  the  bay  you  find 
yourself,  it  is  the  last  thing  you  look  upon  at  night  on  going 
indoors,  and  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  You  know  you 
will  be  lonesome  without  it  when  you  go  away. 


CHAPTER   X. 


ON    ST.    PAUL  S    PIER. 


HE  next  day  they  went  down 
to   the   bay,  the   doctor   and 
Murietta,  to  look  at  the  lit 
tie  town  of  Pozzuoli,  where 
St.    Paul    was    landed    when 
brought     to     Rome.        How 
beautiful  !       How    peaceful  ! 
What  a  touch  of  tenderness 
in     all     things  !       And    yet 
Murietta    found     himself,     as     they 
stood  together  on  the  broken  piers  of 
twenty   centuries    ago,  looking   away 
across  the  bay  at  the  curling  smoke 
of  Vesuvius. 

As  the  sun  rose  up  in  heaven  they 
left  the  little  town,  and  walked  on 
around  the  bay  to  Lake  Averno.  They  stood  on  the  shore  in 
the  broken  arid  crumbling  Temple  of  Apollo,  and  looked 
across  the  bottomless  lake  straight  into  the  mouth  of  the 
cave  which  Virgil  pronounced  the  entrance  into  hell. 

How  solemn  and  how  serene  !  There  were  a  thousand 
white-coated  goats  feeding  on  the  green  hill  above  the  door 
of  the  cave,  and  the  Sibyl's  Cave  opened  its  black,  myste 
rious  mouth  as  if  to  utter  an  oracle.  Away  out  to  the 


86  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

right  a  little  boat,  with  a  little  white  sail,  bore  its  two  lovers 
silently  along. 

They  strolled  back  towards  the  Bay  of  Naples.  They 
stopped  again  at  Pozzuoli,  and  went  on  the  broken  and 
deserted  pier,  and  thought  of  the  Apostle  Paul,  and  stood 
there  a  long  time  silent. 

Yonder  upon  the  hillside  still  steamed  the  hot  bath  of 
Nero.  There,  but  a  stone's  throw  away,  was  the  spot  where 
he  had  his  mother  butchered.  There  was  the  headland  where 
^Eneas  had  landed  after  deserting  Dido,  and  from  that  little 
hill  to  the  right,  Pliny  had  witnessed  the  eruption  of  Vesu 
vius,  and  waited  in  vain  for  the  return  of  his  uncle. 

The  sun,  that  had  stood  in  high  mid-heaven  all  day,  like 
a  warrior  with  lifted  shield,  now  settled  his  shield  on  his 
low  left  hand.  Lower  and  lower  he  let  it  fall  and  settle 
and  sink,  till  it  touched  the  sea.  The  sun  had  set  on  Vesu 
vius. 

Again  Murietta  found  himself  gazing  at  the  rising  column 
of  smoke.  The  great  gray  column  grew  and  grew  from  the 
summit  of  the  mighty  mountain,  taller  than  a  California 
cedar — and  then  it  branched  and  branched  away,  and  blos 
somed  into  stars. 

While  he  stood  gazing  at  Vesu  vius,  watching  the  sun  go 
down,  and  drinking  in  the  scene  with  all  the  thirst  and  eager 
ness  of  a  poet's  or  a  painter's  longing,  unsatisfied  soul,  another 
party  had  silently  come  upon  the  pier;  and  they,  too,  stood 
still  and  reverential,  as  if  awed  by  the  scene  and  the  story 
of  the  holy  place. 

At  last  the  winds  blew  in  and  fanned  the  stars  till  they 
shone  like  torches,  and  Murietta  reluctantly  turned  to  go. 

He  turned,  and  there  with  her  party,  right  in  his  path, 
before  he  had  time  to  retreat  or  escape  in  any  manner,  stood 
the  lady  he  so  earnestly  and  devoutly  worshipped. 

She  seemed  full  of  the  scene  before  her.  She  gathered  her 
blown  garments  closer  about  her,  and  advanced  even  a  step 


On  St.  Pauls  Pier.  87 

nearer.  Murietta's  heart  beat  as  if  he  was  about  to  take 
part  in  his  first  battle. 

She  was  Ictoking  away  at  the  sea,  and  did  not  speak  or 
notice  him,  although  he  could  distinctly  hear  the  rustle  of 
her  robes.  He  could  almost  touch  the  hem  of  her  garments 
with  his  hand.  Then  she  turned  a  little  and  looked  down 
the  coast  in  the  direction  of  Naples,  at  the  three  little  islands. 

How  earnest  her  eyes  were  !  what  a  glow  and  glory  in  her 
beautiful  face  as  she  looked  on  the  spot  where  Brutus  took 
his  last  farewell  of  Portia,  and  turned  his  iron  breast  to  the 
battle  front.  What  could  she  have  been  thinking  of? 

Murietta  bowed  his  head  as  if  he  had  stood  in  a  sacred 
temple  and  the  high  priest  stood  before  him.  He  did  not 
even  dare  to  lift  his  eyes  for  fear  he  should  disturb  her  and 
break  her  meditations. 

She  turned  at  last  to  look  out  to  sea,  and  as  he  lifted  his 
face  their  eyes  met. 

His  hat  was  in  his  hand,  and  he  bowed  and  tried  to  speak, 
but  he  could  only  stammer  inaudibly,  and  his  voice  trembled 
like  his  half-extended  hand. 

She  did  not  answer;  she  did  not  lift  her  hand  towards  his  ; 
she  did  not  even  smile,  nor  bend  her  head,  nor  make  any  sign 
of  recognition  whatever. 

She  only  stepped  a  little  to  one  side  to  let  him  pass  from 
the  pier. 

Murietta  did  not  lift  his  eyes  again.  He  could  have  gone 
into  battle  and  died  with  perfect  delight ;  he  would  have 
smiled.  He  could  have  leapt  into  the  warm  soft  sea-water, 
and  ended  it  all  there  and  then  ;  but  lift  his  eyes  !  he  could 
not  have  done  it  for  the  kingdom  of  Naples.  He  felt  that 
every  one  of  that  strange  party  was  looking  at  him — laugh 
ing  at  him,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  had  been  crushed  beneath  a 
weight. 

On  over  the  broken  pier,  on  up  the  dusty  road,  on  past  the 
little  town — the  doctor  hurrying  after — the  man  strode,  al- 


88  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

most  ran,  with  bis  head  held  down,  and  his  heart  as  if  it  was 

a  great  stone  in  his  breast. 

He  reached  his  lodgings,  and  sent  for  one  of  the  painters 

there,  with  whom  he  had  often  talked  of  Spain. 

"  Carlton,  what  is  the  best  route  to  reach  Barcelona  ?  " 
"  Barcelona  !     Barcelona  ?     Ah,  you  may  take  rail  here, 

pass  through  Rome,  through  Florence,  Turin,  the  Mont  Cenis 

tunnel,  and  so  through  France   down  to  the  sea.     But  you 

may  find  it  besieged  by  land,  and  in  that  case  you  had  better 

go  by  water." 

"  Well,  well,  the  best  way — I  will  go  by  water,  then." 

"  To  Barcelona  ?     Do  you  -know  they  are  fighting  there  ?  " 

"  Are  they,  Carlton  ?     Are    they  fighting — fighting  sharp 

— killing  each  other  by  the  regiment  ?  " 
"Ah,  indeed  they  do  kill  !  " 
"  Good  !     I  will  go  to  Barcelona  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  XI. 


IN    THE    ETERNAL    CITY. 


UEIETTA  stood  all  ready  for 
the  voyage  long  before  the  sun 
had  risen  ;  for  he  had  not 
slept,  had  not  even  cared  to 
take  off  his  coat  again  in 
Naples. 

How  ugly  all  things  seemed 
that    morning    in     the    gray 
dawn  !    There  were  shrill  ugly 
voices    calling    in    the    street 
that  he  had  never  heard  be 
fore.     The  island   of  Caprea,  away  out 
yonder    looked    like    an    ugly    humped 
camel  pushed  away  into  the  sea.     Ve 
suvius  was  not  beautiful ;  it  was  terrible 
and   ugly,  an  instrument  of  destruction 
— the  mouth  of  hell— hell  with  the  lid  off. 

The  ship,  after  all,  was  not  to  go  that  day.  There  was 
cholera  on  shore,  and  ships  of  war  at  sea,  and  the  Italian 
captain  hesitated  about  taking  in  the  coast  of  Spain  at  all. 

Murietta  could  not  remain  in  Naples.  He  would  leave 
Naples  that  day  if  he  left  it  on  foot,  and  barefooted  at  that. 
What  would  be  the  time  to  the  seat  of  war  by  way  of  Rome  ? 
Not  long,  but  you  would  have  to  remain  over  night  at  Rome. 
rl  his  to  the  artist  was  particularly  unpleasant.  Rome  was 
a  sort  of  shrine — a  temple  into  which  he  did  not  care  to  enter 


90  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

without  his  mind  at  peace  and  his  heart  pure  and  his  hands 
clean.  He  thought  of  all  this,  and  was  more  and  more  per 
plexed.  At  last,  throwing  off  the  load  of  indecision  which 
was  crushing  him,  he  drove  to  the  station,  took  his  ticket  for 
Rome,  and  Naples — good  and  bad — was  as  a  dream. 

This  artist,  this  enthusiast,  was  about  to  enter  Rome.  How 
much  this  shrine  had  been  to  him  it  is  hard  to  say.  It  was 
much  more  than  all  the  world  beside  in  art,  in  tradition,  and 
in  the  history  of  the  world.  To  him  there  had  been,  there 
could  be,  but  one  Rome. 

He  had  talked  with  his  sister  and  his  brother  when  playing 
on  the  shores  of  the  Pacific  in  the  shadow  of  the  linden  trees, 
of  this  Eternal  City,  and  had  said  to  them,  "  I  shall  some 
day  see  Rome."  And  they  had  said,  "When  you  see  Rome 
think  of  us,  for  we  shall  then  be  dead." 

And  it  was  so.  He  was  about  to  enter  Rome,  and  they 
were  dead,  and  he  was  thinking  of  them. 

He  sat,  wrapped  up,  alone  in  a  corner,  mad  that  all  men 
around  him  were  laughing,  smoking,  drinking  at  every  station, 
getting  in  and  out,  coming  and  going  with  a  flow  of  spirits 
that  was  like  a  sunny  stream.  The  man  was  growing  selfish. 
He  was  sad  that  his  fellow-men  were  glad. 

Yet  who  could  blame  him  ?  How  his  heart  had  gone  out 
to  this  one  woman !  How  patiently,  how  devotedly  he  had 
loved  her,  looked  up  to  her,  worshipped  her,  waited  before 
her  as  if  she  had  been  divine — and  then  to  be  forgotten,  to 
be  unnoticed  and  unknown  ! 

u  I  scattered  flowei's  in  her  path,  and  she  despised  me." 
And  sitting  wrapped  up  he  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed  a 
hideous  dream. 

He  dreamed  that  he  entered  the  walls  of  Rome,  and  there 
somehow,  and  before  he  hardly  knew  it,  and  in  fact  in  a 
moment  he  could  not  recall,  he  committed  some  great  sin. 
What  that  sin  or  crime  was  he  did  not  really  know.  He  only 
felt  the  intolerable  weight  of  his  crime,  and  knew  that  he 


In  the  Eternal  City.  91 

was  trying  to  escape  from  the  city.  He  had  never  before 
felt  how  terrible  a  thing  it  was  to  do  wrong.  This  crime 
lay  upon  his  soul  like  a  nightmare,  and  could  not  be  shaken  off. 

All  the  time  he  was  thinking,  too,  how  he  had  promised 
to  enter  Rome  barefooted  and  bareheaded,  and  think  of  scenes 
and  faces  that  were  no  more.  He  thought  lie  had  entered 
Home  thoughtless,  and  loud,  and  full  of  merriment,  and  that 
this  was  perhaps  his  punishment.  He  promised  himself  that 
if  ever  it  was  permitted  him  to  enter  the  Eternal  City  again, 
he  would  stop,  leave  the  train  at  the  last  station,  and,  taking 
his  shoes  in  his  hand,  and  a  pilgrim's  staff,  walk  with  bared 
head  into  the  hoary  presence  of  the  past,  where  Time  sits  by 
and  wags  his  beard  at  Home. 

Then  he  thought  he  tried  to  escape  from  the  city,  and  went 
disguised  to  the  People's  Gate,  opening  toward  Ponto  Malo 
and  Florence,  and,  mixing  with  the  tide  of  passers-by, 
thought  to  pass  out  unnoticed.  A  heavy  hand  reached  out, 
and  fell  like  a  thunderbolt  upon  his  shoulder.  He  turned 
his  face  in  his  terror,  looked  up,  and  saw  an  enormous  chin, 
and  heard  a  voice  thunder,  "  I  am  a  man  who  carries  his 
heart  in  his  hand.  A  rough  but  honest  sailor.  Come  with  me." 

He  followed  this  fearful  man,  a  helpless  prisoner,  a  little 
while,  and  then  losing  himself  in  the  crowds  of  people, 
crossed  the  city,  and  was  passing  out  of  the  gate  that  St4 
Peter  passed  when  attempting  to  escape  crucifixion.  He 
was  almost  otit ;  another  step  and  he  would  be  free.  His 
heart  leapt  with  hope  ;  he  looked  sharp  round,  lifted  his 
foot ;  he  was  about  to  spring  forward ;  he  threw  up  his 
hands  with  delight,  and — 

"  I  am  a  man  who  carries  his  heart  in  his  hand.  A  rough 
but  honest  seaman."  The  hand  came  down,  and  the  great 
chin  overshadowed  him,  and  led  him  back  as  before. 

Again  he  loosened  himself  from  this  hard,  horny  hand,  and 
again  got  lost  in  the  crowd,  and  again  attempted  to  pass  the 
gates  of  Home. 


92  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

This  time  it  was  Porto  Pio  opening  to  the  rising  sun.  There 
were  not  so  many  people  passing  this  way,  for  it  seemed  to 
Marietta  that  it  was  night,  and  people  who  pass  here  live  far 
out  against  the  mountains  and  in  and  under  Tivoli,  and  rarely 
keep  their  road  at  night,  save  in  their  high  wine  carts,  drawn 
by  white  oxen  or  mules,  fairly  mailed  in  shining  harness  of 
brass  and  copper. 

Murietta  was  desperate.  He  thought  he  climbed  up  into 
one  of  those  carts,  with  its  hundred  jingling  bells  hanging 
about  the  little  rookery  where  the  driver  sits  all  the  time 
asleep,  and  stowed  himself  in  between  the  empty  wine- 
kegs. 

The  bells  jingled  and  rang,  and  rang  and  jingled,  and  the 
cart  drove  up  under  the  gate.  Murietta  was  again  glad,  for 
this  time  he  certainly  would  escape.  Then  the  cart  stopped, 
and  then  all  the  bells  stopped,  and  that  awoke  the  sleeping 
driver,  and  the  custom-house  man  put  out  his  long  sharp  rod, 
and  the  cart  again  began  to  move,  and  the  bells  to  jingle  as 
before.  Murietta  fairly  buiied  his  nails  in.  his  clenched 
hands  in  his  anxiety.  He  felt  the  perspiration  streaming 
from  his  face.  He  crouched  his  head  down  like  a  coward, 
and  shut  his  eyes  tight  lest  he  should  see  the  man  with  the 
mighty  chin  hanging  over  him  like  a  nightmare. 

The  bells  jingled  and  clashed,  and  clashed  and  jingled — 
and  a  hand  fell  on  Murietta's  shoulder,  and  shook  him  and 
shook  him,  and  a  voice  shouted  as  only  an  Italian  can  shout 
when  excited. 

The  artist  sprang  up  and  attempted  to  loosen  his  hands 
from  the  folds  of  his  cloak,  and  strike  the  man  before  him — 
for  he  still  thought  himself  in  the  hands  of  the  Admiral  of 
Genoa,  the  man  with  the  big  chin. 

"  Signor  !  Signor  !  How  yoxi  do  sleep  !  It  is  Ptome, 
Signor — and  you  must  pass  out  here,  and  you  must  pass  in 
here  and  be  purified  after  passing  through  Naples,  for  Naples 
is  a  place  of  plagues."  And  here  he  pushed  Murietta  through 


In  the  Eternal  City.  93 

a  door  into  a  place  so  full  of  smoke  and  infernal  smells  that 
the  man  fancied  he  had  not  awoke  at  all,  but  had  been  seized 
upon  and  carried  off  by  the  big  man  with  the  big  chin  di 
rectly  to  hell,  where  he  was  to  suffer  for  his  fearful  crime. 

Murietta  was  growing  wild.  He  would  have  shrieked  ; 
but  the  smoke  and  the  smells  stifled  him,  and  he  could  only 
cough  and  catch  his  breath.  He  began  to  feel  about  in  the 
dust  and  dense  smoke,  but  he  found  himself  borne  along  with 
the  crowd,  and  heard  people  behind  and  before,  and  the 
voices  of  the  officers  giving  directions  to  their  men. 

At  last  they  were  shot  out  of  a  great  wide  door,  as  if  out 
of  the  mouth  of  a  mighty  cannon.  The  smoke  curled  about 
them  as  they  came  out,  and  clung  to  their  clothes  and 
wreathed  out  and  about  and  in  their  hair.  They  were  shot 
out  of  the  big  cannon  right  into  a  row  of  yellow  omnibuses 
backed  up  to  the  step,  and  these  omnibuses  t>egan  to  shoot 
down  hill,  and  to  rattle  over  the  stones  of  Rome. 

Muriefcta  had  been  shot  into  an  omnibus  branded  "  Hotel 
Angleterre."  What  the  Hotel  Angleterre  was,  he  did  not 
know — he  did  not  care.  Chance  had  thrown  him  into  this 
coach.  The  responsibility  was  with  chance.  The  man  did 
not  care  a  pin  where  he  went  or  how  he  went  there.  It  was, 
perhaps,  a  matter  of  perfect  indifference  to  him,  and  a  thing 
for  which  he  would  not  have  turned  his  hand,  to  find  he  was 
not  in  hell  at  all,  but  only  in  Rome. 

The  man  who  kept  the  door  of  the  omnibus  put  up  a  little 
tin  sign  over  his  head,  and  then  settled  down  in  his  seat  by 
the  door,  wound  his  arms  in  and  around  the  little  iron  stair 
way  riinning  to  the  top  of  the  omnibus,  arid  in  a  moment 
was  fast  asleep. 

There  was  a  tall,  raw-boned,  hungry-looking  woman  in 
gold  spectacles  crowding  down  on  Murietta  to  the  right. 
Her  elbo.ws  dug  into  his  side.  She  seemed  to  have  a  thousand 
knots  and  angles,  as  if  she  had  just  devoured  the  contents  of  a 
hardware  store. 


94  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

The  omnibus  jolted  and  jerked  over  the  cobble-stones,  and 
the  bony  woman  rattled  against  Marietta  and  settled  down 
\ipon  him.  Then  she  churned  him  in  the  ribs ;  then  she 
turned  her  spectacles  into  his  face,  and  he  knew  her  for  the 
correspondent  he  had  seen  taking  notes  at  Genoa. 

"  We  are  going  down  one  of  the  seven  hills  of  liome — one 
of  the  seven  hills  of  Rome,  Mr.  Murietta." 

Murietta  looked  straight  across  to  the  little  man  sand 
wiched  in  between  four  hat-boxes,  three  travelling-bags,  and 
two  very  tired  and  very  cross-looking  women. 

"  And  so  you  have  come  to  Rome,  too  ?  I  knew  you 
would  come  to  Rome,  and  in  fact  wrote  so  in  my  letter 
from  Genoa,  in  which,  by  the  way,  you  will  find  a  long  and 
faithful  description  of  yourself  and  your  appearance  in  detail, 
as  you  sat  talking  with  that  eccentric  countess." 

She  caught  her  breath  a  second  ;  but  Murietta  did  not 
answer. 

"  Yes,  you  painters,  all  you  painters  come  to  Rome.  And 
you  make  it  pay  when  you  come  to  Rome,  too  !  " 

The  two  women  barricaded  up  behind  their  baskets, 
looked  out  over  and  down  their  walls,  and  listened  to  hear 
what  Murietta  would  answer. 

The  omnibus  rattled  over  the  round  cobble-stones  of 
Rome,  and  the  driver  still  kept  snapping  his  whip  as  if  he 
had  an  endless  string  of  fire-crackers,  but  Murietta  did  not 
answer. 

Woman,  in  any  form  or  light  or  shade,  since  his  last  night 
in  Naples,  was  to  him  simply  so  much  marble,  to  be  estimated, 
valued  only  by  the  art  and  beauty  that  embellished  her.  In 
this  case  the  art  and  beauty  were  certainly  not  apparent  by 
a  Roman  street  lamp,  and  in  a  rattling  Roman  omnibus. 

"I  have  been  thinking,"  began  the  spectacles  again,  "and 
I  so  wrote  in  my  last — which  you  will  find  in  the  best  jour 
nals  of  New  York — that  it  would  be  a  good  commercial  in 
vestment  to  buy  up  a  ship  load  of  pictures  in  Rome.  You  see 


In  the  Eternal  City.  95 

J  do  more  to  encourage  art,  and  do  more  for  you  artists  than 
you  suppose.  Well,  I  would  buy  this  ship  load  of  pictures 
here  in  Rome,  put  them  in  a  flat  boat,  float  them  down  the 
Tiber,  load  the  ship  there  at  the  mouth  of  the  Tiber,  and  then 
go  straight  to  New  York.  I  would  buy  large  ones,  you  see. 
In  fact,  I  would  buy  the  very  largest.  The  people  would 
have  to  buy  them  in  the  States.  I  could  furnish  pictures  in 
this  way  cheaper  than  any  man  in  the  States  could  paint 
them.  I  could  sell  them  so  cheap,  in  fact,  that  people  would 
buy  them  if  only  to  save  wall  paper." 

How  the  bony  woman  did  rattle  on  !  She  was  louder  than 
the  omnibus;  she  talked  as  if  this  was  a  sort  of  Cincinnati 
pork-business. 

"  I  would  ship  over  my  own  canvas — get  it  cheap,  you 
know,  a  sort  of  second-hand  or  contract  canvas — and  paint 
and " 

"  Curse  that  woman  !  " 

Murietta  shot  this  out  straight  ahead  at  the  helpless  little 
man  wedged  in  between  the  bags  and  boxes ;  and  then,  as 
the  two  sour-looking  women  dodged  down  behind  their 
boxes  and  bags,  he  hitched  himself  round  and  sat  at  right 
angles  with  the  bony  elbows  and  the  rattling  tongue  and 
the  empty  head,  till  the  end  of  the  ride ;  while  the  spec 
tacles  settled  sharply  down  on  the  sharp  nose,  and  began 
taking  notes  preparatory  to  writing  a  sketch  which  was 
to  annihilate  our  genius,  and  prove  him  a  brute  and  a  black 
guard. 

The  stones  of  Home  ceased  to  rattle  beneath  them,  and  the 
conductor  awoke. 

The  play  began.  How  beautifully  the  players  were  dressed ; 
and  how  gorgeously  the  stage  was  got  up,  to  be  sure  ! 

There  was  a  row  of  street  lamps  hanging  from  iron  posts 
topped,  with  crowns,  and  great  picturesque  vases,  just  exactly 
as  you  see  in  first-class  pictures  of  old  Rome.  The  pavement 
was  so  like  a  picture,  or  so  like  a  reality,  that  the  mind  hes- 


96  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

itated  between  the  real  and  the  ideal,  and  you  could  hardly 
make  up  your  mind  whether  this  was  a  real  scene  that  looked 
exactly  like  a  picture  or  a  play,  or  a  play  and  a  painted  stage 
that  looked  exactly  like  a  real  scene  in  life. 

There  was  a  door  that  opened  down  into  the  ground,  and 
people  were  coming  up  out  of  the  earth,  and  going  down  into 
the  earth  ;  and  the  light  that  burned  above  the  door  was  per 
fect;  and  you  could  read  the  sign,  "Hotel  Angleterre,"  and 
you  could  have  sworn  that  it  was  a  real  scene,  and  then  not 
believe  your  own  oath  after  all. 

There  was  a  great  big  willow  tree  a  little  to  the  right  of 
the  door  as  you  entered,  and  under  this  great  willow  tree 
that  reached  its  long  green  branches  half-way  acros  the  pretty 
street,  there  was  a  great  stone  coffin  all  covered  with  pretty 
chiselled  figures,  and  into  this  pretty  coffin  flowed  a  fountain 
of  cool,  sweet  water  that  flashed  and  sparkled  in  the  bright 
gaslight,  as  pretty  girls  dipped  their  pretty  brown  hands  and 
filled  their  pitchers,  or  as  men  plunged  their  buckets  and 
drew  them  out  with  water  for  their  horses. 

There  was  a  pretty  beggar-boy,  with  his  feet  in  sandals 
fastened  with  red  silk  ribbons,  a  sheepskin  coat,  and  a  red 
shirt  open  in  the  breast,  and  the  prettiest  face  that  could  be. 
How  well  he  played  !  His  head  would  drop  to  one  side,  his 
pretty  lips  pout  out,  his  great  brown  eyes  half  hiding  under 
his  hair  that  had  been  a  fortune  to  a  belle  of  fashion  ;  and 
such  a  perfect  pathos !  And  then  his  little  dimpled  brown 
hand  would  not  reach  out  at  all ;  it  was  a  timid  hand,  half 
hiding  behind  the  little  woolly  sheepskin  coat,  with  its  rows  of 
brass  buttons,  and  its  stripes,  and  its  braids,  and  its  trinkets 
about  the  breast  and  over  the  shoulders — a  hand  full  of  dimples, 
and  dirty  too,  no  doubt,  but  the  shyest  and  sweetest  little  hand 
that  ever  reached  out  and  touched  any  man's  heart  and 
opened  his  pocket  and  took  out  all  the  pennies,  and  made  the 
man  glad  to  give  them. 

Then  there  was  the  conductor.     You  could  tell  just  exactly 


In  the  Eternal  City.  97 

how  many  centimes  any  one  bad  handed  him  as  he  came  out 
of  the  omnibus,  by  the  number  of  bows  he  made  to  the  man 
as  he  handed  him  his  things. 

Then  the  driver.  He,  too,  had  climbed  down  and  taken 
his  post  by  the  side  of  the  conductor,  who  was  handing  out 
the  passengers,  and,  silk  in  hand,  bowed  and  bowed  as  if  he 
were  working  at  a  pump-handle,  till  he  had  pumped  a  whole 
handful  of  coppers  from  the  passengers.  He  played  his  piece 
exceedingly  well,  and  was  exceedingly  happy  as  he  climbed  up 
to  his  box.  and  resumed  his  reins,  and  began  again  to  let  off 
his  string  of  fire-crackers. 

"  Silk  must  be  cheap  in  Italy,"  thought  Murietta,  as  he 
watched  the  play,  "  else  the  manager  would  be  bankrupt  in  a 
single  season." 

Then  there  came  another  carriage  on  the  boards.  A  strange 
carriage  it  was  indeed,  and  drawn  by  one  horse.  There  was 
a  driver ;  and  then  behind  him,  and  sideways,  sat  a  man  as  if 
he  was  sitting  at  a  piano.  There  was  the  music  and  all  before 
him  ;  there  were  the  ivory  keys ;  the  man  was  looking  up,  too, 
as  if  for  some  particular  fly  on  the  ceiling,  as  a  sort  of  key-note 
by  which  to  begin  his  performance. 

The  pretty  girls  kept  coming  and  going  to  and  from  the 
pretty  marble  coffin,  and  filling  their  pitchers  ;  but  the  fire 
crackers  had  at  last  started  the  poor  Roman  horses,  and, 
lifting  their  hats  again  and  again,  the  driver  and  the  conductor 
disappeared  from  the  stage. 

Then  the  man  at  the  piano  began,  and  he  sang  and  played 
in  the  soft  and  blended  moonlight  and  lamplight  in  the  open 
streets  of  Home  ;  and  the  pretty  girls  set  down  their  pitch 
ers  and  leaned  on  the  iron  rail  around  the  marble  coffin,  and 
looked  dreamily  on  in  dozens,  and  listened  to  the  song  and 
music — for  it  was  indeed  a  piano,  and  a  real  performer,  and 
a  good  one  too. 

"This,"  said  Murietta,  "  is  the  orchestra.  I  like  the  play  ; 
1  like  the  actors ;  they  are  all  men ;  there  is  not  a  woman 


98  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

among  them — save  in  that  ballet  by  the  fountain,  with  their 
brown  earthen  pitchers  in  their  brown,  pretty  hands." 

What  a  variety  of  uniforms ! 

Out  there  by  the  fountain,  a  man  with  a  waist  like  a 
woman's,  with  a  sword  at  his  side  with  the  she- wolf  and  her 
twins  on  the  great  brass  hilt,  walks  idly  up  and  down  in  a 
red  sash  and  a  coat  so  full  of  buttons  and  so  gorgeous  with 
lace,  that  he  might  in  America  be  taken  for  the  Lieutenant- 
General  of  the  armies  of  the  Great  Republic.  That  man  in 
the  gorgeous  clothes,  with  a  sword,  and  a  waist  like  a 
woman's,  and  a  gi-eat  black  cocked-hat,  with  a  storm  of  red 
cock's  feathers,  was  playing  the  part  of  a  policeman. 

Then  the  conductor  had  a  uniform  with  a  military  cap  with 
a  gold  band  ;  then  the  driver  had  a  uniform  with  brass  but 
tons  enough  for  an  American  brigadier.  Then  the  first  clerk 
also  had  a  uniform,  bright  and  beautiful  with  buttons  and 
cords  and  tassels  and  medals,  as  if  he  had  been  an  English 
veteran  of  Waterloo. 

Then  there  was  the  head  porter !  he  also  had  a  uniform 
that  looked  as  if  its  wearer  was  first  in  command  in  Italy. 
Then  the  second  porter  looked  as  if  he  might  be  second  in 
command  ;  then  the  third  porter — and  that  was  "  boots," 
without  a  doubt — had  also  a  uniform  about  equal  to  those 
first,  only  a  little  dimmed  by  time,  not  by  labor,  for  these 
men  never  work  hard  enough  to  hurt  their  clothes  in  the 
least.  And  all  this  play  took  place  at  the  little  old  Hotel 
Angleterre,  away  down  in  the  middle  of  old  Rome — one  of 
the  oldest  first-class  houses  in  all  the  city,  but  not  one  of  the 
best  by  a  great  deal. 

The  play  kept  on ;  the  scene  brightened,  and  the  man 
sang,  and  the  brown  girls  leaned  and  listened  under  the  great 
willow  by  the  fountain,  or  plashed  their  brown  pitchers  in 
the  marble  coffin  and  laughed  like  running  water. 

Murietta,  wearied  at  last,  called  for  a  porter.  A  porter 
came  with  a  great  brush,  dusted  the  traveller  down  in  the  open 


In  the  Eternal  City.  99 

street,  struck  a  thousand  artistic  attitudes  while  doing  it,  and 
all  the  while  kept  time  to  the  music  and  watched  the  play  with 
all  the  interest  of  a  child  at  its  first  circus. 

What  a  sunny-hearted  people  they  are  to  be  sure  ! 

Then  the  artist  slipped  a  copper  or  two  in  his  hand,  and 
the  porter  called  a  boy,  and  the  boy  called  a  cab,  and  the  cab 
drove  upon  the  boards  with  a  string  of  fire-crackers  going  off 
every  second,  and  Murietta  stepped  into  the  little  basket, 
bowed  to  the  players,  said  "  Coliseum,"  and  as  the  fire 
crackers  flew  about  his  ears,  the  curtain — as  far  as  he  was 
concerned — went  down  on  the  first  act  he  had  witnessed  in 
the  City  of  the  Caesars. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


A   SCENE    IN   THE   COLISEUM. 


>.  NDER  the  Arch  of  Titus,  with  the 
•  images  of  the  golden  candlesticks 
brought  from  plundered  and  over 
thrown  Jerusalem,  and  then  down  a 
steep  and  stony  road  the  distance  of 
a  rifle-shot,  and  the  man  with  the 
string  of  fire-crackers  stopped  snap 
ping  his  silk,  looked  back  over  his 
shoulder  at  Murietta,  waved  his 
hand  towards  a  structure  that  tow 
ered  there  like  a  dome  of  Yosemite, 
and  Murietta  got  out  of  the  little  bas 
ket  trap,  handed  the  silent  man  with 
the  silk  and  fire  crackers  a  franc,  and 
passing  through  an  arch  that  a  ship 
might  sail  under,  stood  in  the  Coliseum. 
This  entrance  was  at  the  west.  The 
moon  was  just  then  trying  hard  to  get  up  high  enough  in  the 
oast  to  look  into  the  arena.  There  were  many  people  passing 
slowly  and  silently  around. 

On  the  left  hand  a  party  was  just  arranging  to  go  up  with 
the  guide  and  mount  the  topmost  wall  to  the  north.  They 
were  lighting  torches,  and  laughing  and  talking  so  loud  that 
Murietta  knew  that  the  American  was  abroad  and  in  Rome. 
There  was  a  great  black  cross  in  the  centre  of  the  little 
half-a-mile  circle  of  levelled  ground,  and  there  were  people 


A  Scene  in  the  Coliseum.  101 

coming  an,d  passing  before  it,  and  kneeling  in  circles  around 
it,  and  rising  up  in  silence,  and  passing  out,  bowed  and  peni 
tent  and  silent  as  they  had  entered. 

All  the  time  the  moon  to  the  east  was  sliding  around  and 
climbing  up  and  peeping  over  the  loftiest  and  strongest  wall 
that  now  stands  up  to  tell  us  of  the  mighty  builders  of  old. 

The  party  to  the  left  began  their  ascent,  and  now  and  then 
you  could  see  their  torches  through  the  broken  arches,  and 
you  would  hear  an  owl  beat  his  wings  against  the  wall  as  he 
flew  about  blinded  and  awakened.  You  could  hear  the 
American  shout  now  and  then  in  a  sort  of  war-whoop  of 
triumph  as  he  gained  some  great  height  and  got  a  particularly 
good  view  of  Rome  and  the  Campagna  outside  the  walls 
of  the  city. 

The  moon  at  last  seemed  to  get  her  chin  up  over  the  edge 
of  the  wall,  and  peeped  in  like  a  great  round-faced  country 
girl  full  of  curiosity. 

A  little  party  of  priests  in  black  came  by,  walked  across 
the  ground  sacred  to  the  Christian  Martyrs,  and  did  not  even 
whisper.  Then  a  Capuchin  monk,  bareheaded  and  in  san 
dals,  with  a  rope  around  his  waist  binding  to  his  thin  and 
emaciated  frame  his  one  long  brown  garment,  the  only  thing 
he  is  permitted  to  wear,  walked  slowly  from  station  to  station 
around  the  edge  of  the  arena,  and  said  a  prayer  at  each  as 
he  passed. 

What  a  pitiful  face  was  his  !  He  was  literally  starving  to 
death.  If  these  Capuchin  monks,  in  sandals,  and  brown 
robes  bound  up  with  hempen  cords,  do  not  get  to  heaven, 
they  will  be  losers  indeed;  for  earth  to  them  can  only  be  a 
torment  and  crucifixion. 

I  have  seen  pictures  of  these  pious  men  where  they  are 
made  merry  with  wine,  red-faced  and  riotous  with  good  liv 
ing,  fat  from  over-feeding,  and  sitting  drunk  at  the  wine-tap 
in  their  cellars.  These  men  have  no  wine-cellars.  Their 
cellar  is  a  little  wooden  basket  or  box  which  they  carry  on 


IO2  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

the  arm,  and  lifting  the  lid  from  door  to  door,  they  take 
home  whatever  men  have  left  from  their  breakfasts  or  din 
ners  or  suppers.  They  eat  what  others  refuse  to  eat.  They 
have  no  store-house.  They  are  not  permitted  to  lay  in  store. 
They  live  from  day  to  day,  depending  on  the  charity  of  the 
world. 

When  these  men  rise  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and 
go  shivering  to  prayers  in  this  one  brown  garment,  often  two 
or  three  years  old,  and  threadbare  and  full  of  rents,  they  do 
not  know  what  they  are  to  have  for  breakfast,  or  where  that 
breakfast  is  to  come  from. 

You  may  listen  all  day  and  you  will  not  hear  one  of  these 
brown  men  speak.  You  may  look  a  lifetime,  perhaps,  and 
you  will  not  see  one  of  them  smile. 

The  mournful  Capuchin  kept  on  his  silent  and  solitary 
round  of  penance,  and  the  people  came  and  went  from 
under  the  shadow  of  the  gi'eat  black  cross  in  the  centre  of 
the  sacred  ground,  while,  away  up  yonder,  almost  against  the 
stars,  a  Comanche  savage,  in  the  garb  of  a  Christian, 
shouted  his  delight  at  having  at  last  attained  the  topmost 
rock  of  the  Coliseum. 

Then  through  the  eastern  arch,  looking  out  toward  the 
gate  of  St.  John  Lateran,  there  came  a  party  of  peasants 
who  had  just  entered  here  on  their  way  to  market.  They 
had  made  a  long  journey  on  foot  from  the  hills  away  out 
yonder  twenty  miles  across  the  Campagna,  and  were  very 
tired.  They  huddled  up  close  together  and  seemed  half 
afraid.  Perhaps  this  was  their  first  visit  to  Rome,  for 
the  peasants  of  the  mountains  had  ever  a  terror  of  this 
city. 

There  were  old  men  and  young  men,  old  women  and  young 
women,  and  they  all  bore  loads  on  their  backs  in  great 
baskets,  precisely  as  do  the  Mexican  peasants  and  the  Cali 
fornia  Indians.  These  baskets  are  pointed  at  the  bottom, 
and  broaden  out  towards  the  top.  You  see  these  same 


A  Scene  in  the  Coliseum.  103 

baskets  in  Como,  in  the  Tyrol,  and  in  Switzerland,  in  Oregon 
and  in  Arizona. 

There  was  something  beautiful  in  the  trust  and  faith  and 
sense  of  security  with  which  these  half  wild  people  of  the 
mountains  gathered  about  this  cross,  and  bowed  their  heads 
and  invoked  their  God. 

The  women  had  their  hair  in  pretty  braids,  but  the  long, 
black,  and  bushy  hair  of  the  men  fell  down  in  gloomy  folds 
about  their  shoulders  and  pushed  up  in  great  shocks  about 
the  brows,  as  if  determined  to  push  the  black  and  brigandish 
hat,  feather  and  all,  from  the  head  of  its  proud  and  artistic 
owner. 

The  feet  of  all  were  bound  in  sandals  made  from  the  skins 
of  the  buffalo  bull  of  the  Pontine  marshes,  and  the  legs  were 
wound  up  in  some  kind  of  cloth  and  bound  in  a  plaid  work 
of  many-colored  stripes.  How  beautiful  were  these  women 
kneeling  there,  crouching  close  to  husband,  parent,  or  lover, 
as  if  in  fear  that  the  old  story  of  Romulus  and  the  Sabines 
might  be  repeated. 

Go  out  yonder  to  Tivoli,  an  old  town,  old  when  Rome  was 
young,  that  overlooks  the  Campagna  and  that  overlooks 
Rome,  that  looks  over  Rome  and  on  and  into  the  Mediter 
ranean  Sea,  although  twenty  miles  to  the  east,  and  ask  any 
peasant  there,  no  matter  how  wild  and  savage  he  may  be, 
how  ignorant  or  stupid,  about  Rome  and  the  people  of 
Rome. 

The  hands  of  the  peasant  go  up,  and  he  prays  for  deliver 
ance.  Rome  to  him  is  a  sort  of  purgatory.  No,  no,  no,  he 
would  not  go  to  Rome  for  the  world !  The  men  of  Rome 
are  robbers,  the  women  have  neither  virtue  nor  beauty  !  And 
then  if  you  have  a  little  time  and  a  very  little  money  to  spare 
to  buy  ten  cents'  worth  of  wine,  he  will  sit  with  you  till  the 
bottle  is  finished  and  will  tell  you,  word  for  word,  of  this 
Rape  of  the  Sabines.  He  will  tell  it  to  you  with  all  the  ear 
nestness  and  mystery  and  emphasis  of  a  Hamlet.  He  will 


IO4  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

leave  his  marble  bench  at  least  a  dozen  times  before  the  bot 
tle  or  the  story  is  finished,  to  play  the  piece,  to  show  you 
just  exactly  how  bad  the  people  are  in  Rome,  and  how  they 
do  these  things. 

What  is  very  remarkable  about  this,  and  most  amusing,  is 
the  fact  that  he  tells  it  as  if  it  happened  only  within  the  last 
year  or  two. 

No  wonder  these  weary  peasants  kneeling  before  the  cross, 
as  the  moon  still  kept  climbing  up  and  reaching  out  and 
peering  over  as  if  to  get  a  good  look  at  them,  huddled  up 
close  together,  and  kept  looking  from  under  their  dark  brows 
at  any  strange  footstep  that  came  near,  with  all  the  look  of  a 
wild  beast  for  the  first  time  brought  to  look  into  the  face  of 
man. 

Marietta  kept  close  in  the  shadow  of  the  mighty  wall  and 
out  of  the  full  of  the  moonlight,  and  yet  stole  lip  as  close  to 
these  people  as  possible,  for  to  him  they  had  a  strange  in 
terest.  He  looked  on  their  picturesque  dress  and  their  sav 
age  beauty  with  something  more  than  the  interest  of  a 
painter.  To  him  they  were  but  a  counterpart  of  the  people 
with  whom  he  had  spent  most  of  his  life.  They  were  to  him 
in  some  sense  brothers — men  who  knew  not  civilization  or 
its  sins,  men  who  live  close  to  the  earth,  women  who  blos 
somed  down  in  the  lowliest  fields,  and  he  felt  that  he  loved 
them  with  all  of  a  brother's  affection. 

The  moon  kept  climbing  and  climbing,  and  peering  in  and 
peeping  over,  till  it  looked  right  straight  down  on  the  group 
of  gathered  worshippers  kneeling  under  the  shadow  of  the 
great  black  cross,  and  made  a  picture  that  any  man  might 
remember,  carry  with  him  around  the  world,  hang  on  the 
walls  of  his  heart,  and  wear  it  there  !  and  though  fire  and 
flood  might  sweep  away  all  that  he  possessed  in  the  world, 
still  that  picture  should  remain  and  rest  and  refresh  its 
possessor  whenever  he  chose  to  open  his  heart  and  look  in 
again. 


A  Scene  in  the  Coliseum.  105 

Higher  and  higher  the  moon  climbed  up,  till  her  great 
round  face  reached  high  over  the  wall,  and  she  seemed  to 
reach  and  lean  and  look  and  peer  as  if  for  something  back  in 
the  shadow  that  she  could  not  see.  Higher  and  higher  she 
climbed,  and  looked  and  leaned  and  reached  her  face  above 
and  over  the  walls,  and  down  as  if  she  would  twist  her  neck 
from  her  shoulders.  Up  !  up  !  up  !  over  the  wall  and  down. 
And  then  she  saw  her !  and  then  she  touched  her  with  her 
fingers,  and  the  lady  rose  up  and  came  forth  into  the  full 
light,  and  moved  in  silence  on  towards  the  cross,  with  her 
head  held  down  in  her  hands,  her  maid  following  after,  and  a 
man  back  yonder  in  the  corner  of  the  Coliseum  with  his 
enormous  chin  just  visible  in  a  bar  of  moonlight  that  fell 
through  a  rent  in  the  eternal  wall.  A  little  slender  man 
stood  beside  him — a  shadow,  an  echo. 

Marietta  started.  lie  stepped  back  into  the  shadow  of  the 
wall,  and  the  beautiful  Countess  went  on,  slowly  on,  with  her 
hands  to  her  bended  face,  towards  the  cross  and  the  suppli 
cants  before  it.  This  woman  did  seem  so  beautiful,  she 
seemed  so  sad,  so  weirdly  beautiful  and  pitiful — the  scene 
was  so  strange,  so  inspiring,  so  full  of  soul  and  sentiment,  so 
complete — that  Murietta  leaned  against  a  jutting  spur  of  the 
wall  and  grew  tranquil  from  the  greatness  and  solemnity  and 
fulness  of  the  occasion. 

He  heard  a  sob  as  the  woman  passed,  and  in  the  moonlight 
streaming  full  on  her  face  he  saw  something  glistening  like 
diamonds  from  her  fingers.  She  was  weeping  as  if  her  heart 
would  break. 

The  big  man  came  out  from  the  shadow,  and  the  little  man 
came  also,  and  they  stood  there  scowling  on  the  scene  before 
them. 

"  Come  !   enough  of  this  nonsense  to-night." 

O  O 

The  man  with  the  big  chin  had  tried  to  say  this  in  a  sub 
dued  voice,  but  the  roar  of  the  lion  was  only  subdued  to  a 
growl,  and  his  voice  sounded  as  if  it  had  been  that  of  a  lion 


io6  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

of  old  lying  there,  waiting  for  the  blood  of  a  Christian, 
growling  that  he  had  been  kept  waiting  a  moment  for  his 
prey — and  the  peasants  trembled. 

"  Come  !  enough  of  this  nonsense  to-night,"  said  the  echo. 
But  the  CoTint  spoke  in  a  kinder  tone,  a  sort  of  softened  echo, 
and  he  even  lifted  his  hat  as  he  spoke.  The  admiral  frowned, 
and  then  the  count  took  down  his  hand,  and  tried  to  frown 
also  and  look  terrible. 

"  Come  !  Come  away  from  among  these  beasts ;  you'll 
get  fleas  on  you." 

The  peasants,  startled,  huddled  together  a  moment,  prayed 
devoutly,  and  then  began  to  rise  and  resume  their  loads. 

"  Come  away,  will  you  ?  You'll  get  fleas  on  you,"  said 
the  little  count,  and  the  countess,  also  startled  by  the  terrible 
voice,  rose  up,  turned  her  face  from  the  men  without  answer 
ing  or  even  looking  in  their  direction,  and  walked  rapidly, 
with  her  head  down  and  her  face  half  concealed,  towards  the 
eastern  portal. 

"  That's  the  way  to  do  it,"  growled  the  admiral  to  the 
count,  as  the  two  followed  after  her. 

"  That's  the  way  to  do  it,  I  suppose,"  said  the  count,  and 
they  followed  the  countess  through  the  archway,  and  the 
three  were  gone. 

Murietta  was  full  of  emotion.  Here  was  something  to  do 
better  than  go  to  battle.  Here  was  a  woman  certainly  suffer 
ing,  certainly  being  persecuted  to  death ;  a  sort  of  dreamer 
possibly  who  had  not  any  experience,  and  who,  perhaps, 
knew  not  how  to  proceed  to  extricate  herself  from  the  toils 
that  held  her  in  prison. 

All  of  the  best  part  of  Marietta's  nature  was  being  aroused 
again. 

Here  is  a  man  to  be  punished — a  woman  to  be  avenged ! 
But  how  ?  What  will  be  the  result  ?  The  result !  He 
laughed  at  himself,  and  began  to  despise  himself  that  he  could 
stop  to  ask  the  result  or  weigh  the  danger  when  a  lady  needed 


A  Scene  in  the  Coliseum.  107 

his  help.     He  walked  on  out,   mechanically  following  the 
long  line  of  peasants  on  their  way  to  market. 

All  roads  lead  to  Rome.  The  carriage  drove  off  in  ad 
vance  ;  the  peasants  followed,  and  then  Murietta  came  on 
slowly  after.  He  stopped  as  he  came  up  to  the  Arch  of 
Titus.  There  was  an  old  woman  on  the  left  under  the 
shadow  of  the  arch,  reaching  a  little  tin  cup  with  a  few  cen 
times  in  it,  and  calling  out,  "  Blind  !  blind  !  blind  !  " 

He  stopped,  after  stepping  up  close  to  her  with  some  pence 
in  his  hand,  and  stepped  back.  There  was  an  old  man  on  the 
other  side  of  the  arch  who  seemed  not  only  to  have  his  eyes, 
but  to  be  very  comfortable  as  well  as  something  of  a  mer 
chant,  who  had  roasted  chestnuts  and  apples  and  almonds 
for  sale. 

Murietta  turned  and  gave  this  man  the  pennies,  and  passed 
on  almost  cursing  the  wretched  old  woman  with  the  tin  box. 

"  No,  no,  no  !  I  loved  her  in  a  grand  proud  way.  I  did 
not  persecute  her.  I  stood  far  off  content  to  know  that  she 
lived  and  was  happy.  I  did  not  even  speak  to  her.  I  scat 
tered  roses  in  her  path.  And  what  came  of  it  ?  " 

He  set  his  teeth  together  as  he  said  this,  and  set  his  face 
and  heart  against  woman. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


AN    INTERLUDE. 


HE  curtain  rose  in  a  little 
square  down  in  old  Rome  not 
a  great  way  from  the  Tiber. 
There  was  a  fountain  playing 
there  in  the  centre  of  the 
piazza.  A  great  bright  foun 
tain  it  was,  spouting  up  and 
spilling  down  in  a  grand  gran 
ite  sarcophagus  big  enough  tc 
make  a  bedroom. 

The  pretty  girls,  like  pictures, 
were  coining  and  going  here  with 
their  pitchers  of  water;  and  gay 
young  men  were  leaning  about  over 
the  iron  rails  around  the  fountain, 
and  bantering  the  pretty  brown 
girls,  who,  as  they  laughed,  showed  the  whitest  teeth  to  be 
found  anywhere  in  the  world. 

Here  a  merchant  trundled  a  barrow,  and  there  an  old 
woman  bore  a  basket  of  fruits  or  nuts  upon  her  head.  Two 
men  were  gambling  over  yonder  in  a  corner  of  the  stage 
with  its  great  palace  for  a  background,  and  throwing  out 
their  hands  and  guessing  the  number  of  fingers  that  would 


KJ 


An  Inter  hide.  100 

be  opened  in  the  outstretched  hand.  They  were  just  a  little 
noisy,  and  as  drunk  as  ever  you  see  a  Roman. 

The  peasants  from  the  mountains,  Avhom  we  have  seen 
in  the  Coliseum,  enter  in  a  long  line,  bending  under  their 
heavy  loads  and  the  fatigue  of  their  long  journey. 

An  old  peasant  leads  the  party.  He  has  been  here  before  ; 
and,  with  a  dagger  but  half  concealed  in  his  belt  and  another 
in  the  thongs  of  his  sandal,  feels  that  by  the  divine  interpo 
sition  of  the  Holy  Yirgin,  and  the  help  of  these  two  weap 
ons,  he  will  be  able  to  get  through  his  marketing  and  get  out 
of  Rome  alive. 

They  are  again  grouped  together  here,  and  do  not  look 
unlike  the  time  they  knelt  before  the  cross.  It  is  growing 
late ;  yet  in  these  beautiful  autumn  nights  business  as  well 
as  pleasure  holds  long  reaches  towards  the  to-morrow. 

Other  actors  come  around  this  group,  and  they  begin  to 
nibble,  to  bite  a  little,  to  run  back,  come  again,  dart  off,  throw 
np  their  hands,  make  speeches,  shout,  thunder,  curse,  run  away 
swearing  to  never  come  back  or  buy  a  single  thing  of  these 
brigands  from  the  mountains,  and  then  the  same  moment  turn 
on  the  heel,  come  back,  throw  down  the  money,  take  up  the 
article  and  so  disappear. 

"  How  much  for  these  poor  little  lean  fowls  ?  " 

"  These  fat,  plump  young  spring  chickens  are  worth  two 
francs  apiece." 

"  Maria  !  Maria  !  Holy  Mother  !  Rome  is  full  of 
chickens.  Rome  is  eaten  up  with  chickens.  Rome  is  ruined 
with  chickens  at  half  that  price.  In  fact,  signor,  in  confidence 
I  will  tell  you,  the  Syndicate  is  about  to  pass  a  law  forbid 
ding  chickens  to  be  brought  into  Rome  at  all.  They  breed 
the  cholera — the  cholera,  signor !  And  when  they  pass  that 
law,  what  then  will  you  do  with  your  poor,  lean,  little,  half- 
sick,  hungry  chickens  ?  tell  me  that !  " 

"  Then  since  you  are  so  kind  as  to  tell  me  all  this,  take 
them  for  one  franc  and  a  half." 


no  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  One  franc  and  a  half  1 "  Again  the  hands  go  up.  This 
excellent  actor  stands  on  one  leg,  he  turns  round  like  a  top, 
he  looks  right  and  left,  sighs  pathetically  at  the  old  man  from 
the  mountains,  and  bids  him  good-night. 

"  But  what  will  you  give,  signor  merchant  ?  " 

"  Give  ?  Give  ?  What  will  I  give  ?  Signor,  I  do  not 
want  your  chickens.  I  should  be  ruined  if  I  bought  a  single 
chicken.  I  should  starve.  I  could  not  eat  your  chickens — 
your  chickens  would  eat  me !  Ha,  ha !  Your  chickens 
would  eat  me  !  But  listen — "  and  here  the  splendid  actor 
bows  low,  looks  sharp  around  him,  as  if  to  be  sure  that  no  one 
hears — "  I  will  give  you  half  a  franc,  since  it  is  you,  and  be 
come  a  bankrupt ! " 

"  They  are  yours." 

And  now  that  the  business  is  done  the  men  part.  The 
two  actors  have  played  earnestly  and  well ;  and  now  they  give 
way  to  others  on  the  boards. 

"  The  mutton,  I  tell  you,  is  spoilt.  I  will  have  you  ar 
rested — I  will  have  you  thrown  in  prison — the  prison  of  the 
Capitoline  where  St.  Paul  was  kept  and  where  Jugurtha  per 
ished — for  bringing  spoilt  meat  into  the  city." 

"  Spoilt,  signor?     Spoilt  !     I  killed  this  mutton  at  noon." 

"  At  noon  yesterday  ?  " 

"  No  ;  to-morrow  !  " 

"  Five  soldi  !  "  And  five  fingers  go  straight  up,  and  the 
man  tiptoes  with  excitement. 

"  Ten !  "  And  the  other  actor  springs  to  his  feet,  and 
throws  both  hands  in  the  air. 

"  Six ! " 

"  Nine ! " 

"  Seven  ! " 

"Eight!" 

"Seven  and  a  half!" 

"  It  is  yours ;  take  it  and  be  satisfied." 

The  merchant  shoulders  his  leg  of  mutton  and  leaves  the 


An  Interlude.  in 

stage,  looking  back,  walking  sideways,  stepping  high,  bowing 
as  if  in  acknowledgment  of  the  applause. 

"  And  what  will  the  little  old  woman  take  for  her  little 
old  pig  ?  " 

"  This  plump  little  pig  which  I  have  brought  to  market  to 
day  is  my  heart's  blood  !  It  is  a  late  spring  pig,  three  months 
old,  and  fat  as  a  chestnut." 

The  merchant  took  the  pig  in  his  hands,  inspected  it,  and 
shook  his  head. 

"  Very  sorry — but  that  is  a  valley  pig  !  You  mountain 
people  steal  from  the  valley  people.  You  stole  that  pig, 
mother?  You  stole  that  pig,  and  I  have  a  mind  to  turn  you 
over  to  that  captain  of  the  police  !  " 

"Stole  that  pig?  The  Holy  Mother!  Stole  my  dear 
little,  darling  pig  !  Ah,  signer,  signor  !  how  could  you  say 
so  ?  Why,  I  have  had  that  pig  in  my  house,  signor,  in  my 
own  -house  for  years  and  years  !  " 

This  accomplished  actor  failed  in  fighting  the  old  woman, 
and  strange  as  it  may  seem,  paid  her  her  price ;  and  the 
peasants  having  sold  their  wares  and  fruits  and  meats,  gather 
up  their  wares  in  their  baskets,  load  up  as  they  pass  down 
the  stage  with  such  things  as  they  need  in  their  wild  and 
simple  homes,  and  prepare  to  pass  out  of  the  gates  of  Rome 
by  midnight ;  for  they  will  not  consent  to  sleep  within  the 
walls  of  the  sinful  city. 

There  a  man  has  strung  a  dozen  loaves  of  bread  on  a  string 
and  swung  this  around  him,  and  stands  in  the  most  graceful 
pose,  throwing  back  his  black  hair,  as  he  stands  there  wait 
ing  for  his  companions. 

There  a  woman  has  taken  a  great  bar  of  iron  on  her  head. 
It  is  enough  to  load  a  mule.  It  is  from  the  mines  of  Eng 
land,  and  will  be  borne  on  this  woman's  head  to  the  tops  of 
the  Apennines,  and  there  made  by  some  cunning  hands  into 
knives  and  scissors  and  shears,  and  all  things  that  these  sim- 


112  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

pie  people  "want,  for  they  will  not  buy  such  things  from  the 
Romans. 

Looking-glasses,  beads,  gay  colored  shawls,  scarfs,  handker 
chiefs — all  these  are  flowing,  folding,  falling  about  the  heads, 
shoulders,  waists,  of  the  happy  mountain  peasants  as  they 
stand  there  in  line,  waiting  till  their  full  force  is  ready  to 
move,  so  that  not  one  of  their  number  may  be  left  behind  to 
fall  into  the  hands  of  the  terrible  Romans. 

There  is  an  organ-grinder  with  a  piano  on  a  wheelbarrow, 
playing  over  yonder,  and  down  in  that  crowd  some  man  in 
white  clothes  and  in  a  Panama  hat,  with  an  instrument  under 
his  arm,  is  picking  the  strings  and  singing  the  most  villan- 
ous  Spanish  song  you  ever  heard. 

The  line  moves  on ;  the  orchestra  plays ;  the  curtain  falls ; 
and  the  play  in  Rome  is  over  for  to-night. 


CHAPTER   XIY. 


AN    INNOCENT    DUEL. 

TJRIETTA  arose  at  mid-day, 
still  worn  from  travel  and  wear- 
ried  in  mind  from  the  excite 
ment  of  the  scene  at  the  Coli 
seum  the  evening  before. 

As  he  dressed,  he  began  to 
ask  himself  if  he  really  wished 
to  leave  Rome,  and  again  enter 
the  arena  of  war.  He  found 
that  he  did  not. 

"And  is  it  because  the  count 
ess    is    here  ?  "       He    looked 
honestly  and  earnestly  in  his 
heart,  and  then  answered  him 
self,  "  No,  it   is   not   because 
the  countess  is  here.    I  am  perfectly  cer 
tain  of  that." 

"  And  then  is  it  because  Annette  is 
not  here  ?  " 

He  snapped  his  fingers  for  a  sort  of 
defiant  negative ;  took  up  his  hat,  and  sauntered  out  into  the 
heart  of  Rome. 

There  is  something  singularly  relaxing  in  the  atmosphere 
here.  For  the  first  day  you  are  all  excitement.  You  lie 
down  to  sleep.  You  sleep  and  sleep  and  sleep  as  if  you 
never  would  awaken ;  and  then  when  you  do  waken,  you 
only  do  it  in  half.  You  seem  to  be  never  thoroughly  awake  in. 
Rome.  So  it  was  with  Murietta  this  morning.  He  looked 


^ 

114  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

over  the  fields  of  action,  remembered  perfectly  well  what  had 
been  his  plans  the  day  before,  and  wondered  why  he  was  now 
so  dull  and  indifferent.  He  began  to  despise  himself. 

This  man's  nature  was  contradictory.  That  is,  he  was  not 
always  alike  by  a  great  deal.  To-day  he  was  all  impetuosity 
— all  passion ;  to-morrow  he  might  be  all  repose,  all  peace. 

He  was  as  sudden  and  stormy  at  times  as  a  mountain  flood 
of  Mexico ;  he  also  was  as  suddenly  exhausted.  To-day  the 
tide  was  out,  the  Hood  had  exhausted  its  force,  and  the  man 
was  dull  and  indifferent  in  body  and  in  mind. 

Still  he  resolved  to  go  on  to  Spain,  and  plunge  into  the 
war,  as  he  had  first  proposed  on  leaving  Naples.  He  tried  to 
laugh  at  the  enigmatical  position  of  the  Countess  Edna,  and 
by  so  doing  come  to  despise  her.  The  remembrance  of  her 
pitiful  face  brought  tears  to  his  eyes. 

Then  he  recalled  the  scorn  of  the  lady  on  the  pier  of  St. 
Paul  by  the  sea  at  Naples.  After  all,  did  she  really  know 
him  ?  he  asked  himself.  Might  it  not  have  been  that  she 
took  him  for  one  of  the  thousand  tourists  met  at  every  turn, 
a  stranger  ? 

Then  he  laughed  to  himself  and  thought,  "  No,  no ;  what 
ever  others  may  do  I  will  not  cheat  myself." 

He  quickened  his  pace,  and  soon  stood  before  a  dingy  old 
palace,  bearing  above  its  portal  the  banner  and  arms  of  Spain. 

The  porter  limped  upstairs,  bowing  all  the  time  and  looking 
back  and  showing  his  teeth  in  the  friendliest  fashion  to  Muri- 
etta,  for  besides  the  card  he  bore  also  a  little  five-franc  note. 

The  porter  limped  down,  like  a  robin  of  a  frosty  morning, 
on  one  leg,  and  Murietta  went  up. 

The  secretary  of  legation  received  him  in  that  most  obse 
quious  manner  peculiar  to  all  men  in  subordinate  positions 
in  the  Latin  countries.  He  would  scarcely  be  seated  in  his 
presence. 

"  But  I  wish  to  see  his  excellency  the  Minister  of  Spain  to 
the  Court  of  Italy." 


An  Innocent  Duel.  115 

"  But  his  excellency — his  excellency  is — not — is  not — 
Really,  Signor  Murietta,  it  is  but  twelve  o'clock." 

"  And  at  what  time  can  I  hope  to  have  my  card  sent  to  his 
excellency  ?  " 

"  Well,  really,  we  rise  early  here  in  Rome.  At  home  you 
know  we  rise  at  two  ;  here  his  excellency  kindly  sacrifices 
himself  to  the  cares  of  office  and  the  fortunes  of  his  country, 
and  may  be  seen  as  early  as  one  o'clock." 

The  polite  clerk  bowed  as  he  said  this — bowed  very  low 
and  very  profcmndly,  and  shut  his  eyes  and  held  his  breath 
at  the  very  mention  of  such  a  sacrifice  on  the  part  of  a  high 
born  Spaniard.  The  secretary  was  perfectly  certain  that  this 
was  the  liveliest  Spaniard  and  the  widest  awake  Spaniard  in 
all  Europe. 

"  I  will  wait,"  said  Murietta,  at  last,  and  began  to  roll  a 
cigarette. 

"  Good,  good,  that  is  best ;  you  are  the  first  here  ;  you  will 
certainly  be  the  first  to  see  his  excellency  by  right  of  priority 
— to  say  nothing  of  your  name." 

Murietta  bowed.  The  secretary  rolled  a  cigarette,  lighted 
it,  put  it  in  his  mouth,  and  blew  it  out  in  smoke  through 
his  nose ;  as  if  his  nose  was  a  sort  of  a  double-barrelled 
shot-gun  to  be  loaded  up  with  paper  and  discharged  with 
smoke. 

Then  there  was  a  silence.  Through  the  smoke  Murietta 
saw  that  the  coat  of  the  kind  secretary  was  literally  thread 
bare.  The  furniture  was  so  poor  it  was  reduced  in  many 
cases  to  perfect  skeletons.  There  was  a  sofa  standing  on  three 
legs  like  a  poor  broken-down  horse.  It  looked  as  if  it  had 
been  led  and  was  standing  before  the  door  of  the  soap 
factory,  waiting  to  be  knocked  on  the  head  and  cut  into 
chunks,  and  boiled  into  jelly  and  converted  into  cakes  of  first- 
class  fashionable  Windsor  soap.  The  curtains  were  of  another 
century.  The  carpet  looked  as  if  it  had  been  marched  over 
by  the  iron  feet  of  Time  for  a  thousand  years.  The  secretary 


n6  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

was  indeed  very  poor ;  therefore  he  tried  hard  to  be  very 
agreeable. 

He  loaded  his  mouth  with  paper  again,  touched  a  match 
to  the  fuse,  and  turning  round  toward  Murietta  tired  his 
double-barrelled  shot-gun  right  at  his  breast.  Murietta  too 
had  loaded  up,  and  elevating  his  nose  gave  the  secretary  as 
good  as  he  had  sent.  Then  they  both  loaded  up  again  ;  and 
the  innocent  duel  went  on  till  the  dusty  old  clock  began 
to  point  toward  the  time  when  his  excellency  would  allow  a 
card  to  be  sent  into  his  presence. 

"  Rome  is  filling  up  rapidly,"  observed  the  secretary. 

"  Ah ! " 

"  Yes,  yes.  Rome,  you  see,  is  a  great  bowl — a  great  basin. 
Rome  is  set  out  here  like  a  tub  under  the  great  heavens. 
Well,  it  rains  ;  and  Rome  fills  up.  No  ?  You  do  not  catch 
my  figure  ?  Well,  look  here.  Rome  has  a  great  wall,  a  great 
round  wall ;  that  wall  suggests  the  rim  of  a  basin  or  bowl. 
Good.  Now  it  rains  ;  that  is,  you  people,  you  travellers,  you 
pour  into  Rome.  You  rain  down  upon  us.  Ha  !  ha  !  You. 
fill  us  up  like  a  flood.  Ha  !  ha  !  Now  you  understand  ?  You 
see — "  and  here  the  secretary  bowed  over  toward  the  artist 
as  if  about  to  tell  a  great  secret — "  you  see  I  have  written 
novels.  I  owe,  in  fact  and  in  confidence,  I  owe  my  position 
here,  as  secretary  of  legation  of  the — of  the — of — of  Spain  ! 
— to  the  fact  that  I  was  once  a  novelist — well,  men  who 
write  novels  fall  into  the  habit  of  using  these  figures,  and — • 
and  you  will  pardon  me." 

A  profound  bow,  and  then  a  silence.  Then  the  guns  were 
loaded,  fired ;  and  still  his  excellency  did  not  appear. 

"  Spain  certainly  is  not  in  need  of  my  help,  if  her  minister 
has  so  much  time  for  repose,"  mused  Murietta,  and  he  began 
to  be  terribly  bored. 

"  Yes,  Rome  is  filling  up.  You  can  go  out — I  go  out  of  a 
morning,  and  I  put  my  finger  on  the  rim  of  the  basin — that 
is,  the  wall — and  I  say,  '  She  filled  up  that  much  last  night.' 


An  Innocent  Duel.  117 

Then  I  walk  down  the  Corso,  and  I  note  the  density  of  the 
crowd  there,  and  I  say,  'Ah,  how  it  did  rain  yesterday  and 
all  last  night ! '  I  go  up  to  the  basin's  rim,  and  I  reach  my 
hand,  and  I  say,  '  It  is  so  high.'  Ha  !  ha  !  Home  will  soon 
be  full  up  to  the  top  of  the  basin's  rim,  and  then  she  will 
pour  over  and  spill  out,  and  people  will  flow  on  in  a  sort  of 
river  to  Egypt  and  on  to  Palestine.  And  so  it  goes  on,  and 
so  it  will  continue  to  go  on  for  years,  centuries,  long  after 
you  and  I  have  gone  the  great,  great  journey." 

The  secretary  stopped,  wiped  his  eyes,  and  waited  for  the 
artist  to  answer.  But  Murietta  meant  business  rather  than 
sentiment,  and  he  sat  silent,  still  waiting  for  the  great 
minister. 

"  But  the  great  balls,  receptions,  court,  and  all  that,  do  not 
commence  just  yet — they  will  not  until  the  princess  and  the 
belle  of  the  city,  Miss  Annette  B.,  return  from  Naples." 

The  kind  secretary  sprang  up  in  alarm.  If  he  had  struck 
the  artist  in  the  face,  he  could  not  have  startled  him  more 
than  he  did  by  the  mention  of  this  name.  But  it  was  only 
momentary. 

"  Pray  pardon  me,  I  am  nervous  this  morning.  Worn 
from  travel  and  not  strong,  never  strong  now,  and — and — Yes, 
yes.  I  have  seen  this  lady,  Miss  Annette  B. ,  but  do  not  know 
her.  I  do  not  know  her  at  all.  She  does  not  know  me. 
Does  she  then  live  in  Rome  ?  " 

The  kind-hearted  secretary  and  the  novelist  sat  down,  and 
bowing  again,  began  to  roil  another  cigarette,  preparatory  to 
telling  all  he  knew  of  Miss  Annette  B. 

"Yes — oh  yes,  the  lady  lives  in  Rome.  You  go  up  the 
Corso  towards  the  Capitoline.  Near  the  farther  end  you 
come  upon  great  palaces,  the  finest  old  palaces  in  all  Rome. 
Well,  on  the  left  hand,  just  before  you  come  to  the  palace  of 
the  Cardinal  Bonaparte — which  is  on  the  right — you  will 
see,  opening  from  the  Corso,  a  pretty  court.  This  court 
is  a  sort  of  drive,  a  place  where  you  turn  your  carriage  or 


n8  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

your  horses,  show  off  the  points  of  your  courser  as  your  lady 
leans  from  the  marble  balcony,  and  from  a  safe  distance  laughs 
and  calls  back  little  replies.  Well,  this  court  is  set  all 
around  with  bushes,  briars,  lilies,  roses,  in  season  and  out  of 
season.  It  is  a  sort  of  paradise.  You  can  see  it  from  the 
Corso  any  time  you  pass — that  is,  any  time  between  twelve 
and  twelve,  when  the  great  gates  are  not  shut.  Yes,  a  sort 
of  paradise,  and  there  lives  the  one  fair  woman  of  Rome." 

"  The  one  fair  woman  of  the  world,"  sighed  the  artist,  for 
now  he  saw  how  immeasurably  she  was  above  him  and  how 
hopeless  was  his  love. 

"  Rome  would  not  be  Rome  without  her,"  continued  the 
secretary. 

"  The  world  would  not  be  the  world  without  her,"  thought 
Murietta,  and  yet  he  was  perfectly  certain  that  he  hated  her. 

"Ah  !"  thought  he,  "if  she  had  only  proved  to  be  poor. 
If  she  had  only  been  an  artist,  an  artist's  daughter,  a  sol 
dier's  daughter — anything  !  had  her  life  led  upon  any  ground 
at  all  where  our  souls  might  meet  with  understanding,  then 
it  had  been  better  for  me,  and  I  should  have  hoped.  Now  I 
am  perfectly  certain  she  knew  me.  Her  companions  are 
princesses ;  her  home  is  a  palace.  I  shall  never  see  her  any 
more.  Curse  that  indolent  minister  !  " 

The  secretary  loaded  up  again,  Murietta  did  the  same,  and 
the  double-barrelled  guns  were  fired  right  in  each  other's 
faces,  but  at  a  good  distance,  and  the  duel  did  no  further 
harm  than  giving  the  room  the  appearance  of  having  inhaled 
a  breath  of  London  fog. 

"  Then  she  is  an  Italian  ?  " 

"  Bless  me,  no." 

"  Ah,  I  remember  now  you  told  me — Spanish  ?  " 

"  Spanish  ?  I  told  you  no  such  thing.  I  only  wish  she 
was.  She  would  be  an  honor  even  to  his  excellency  the 
Minister  of  Spain."  Here  the  secretary  bowed  profoundly 
again,  again  shut  his  eyes,  and  again  caught  his  breath. 


An  Innocent  Duel.  119 


"  Then  she  is " 

"  American." 

"  No  ?  " 

"  Ah,  but  she  is,  and  the  rarest  of  the  race.  You  find  her 
name,  or  the  name  of  her  family,  in  every  decade  of  the 
country's  history  for  centuries  back.  And,  do  you  know,  she 
herself  is  not  without  a  history  ?  " 

Murietta  rolled  a  cigarette,  put  it  to  his  lips,  touched 
a  match,  and  shot  it  through  his  nose  in  a  single  breath.  He 
twisted  up  another  in  an  instant,  put  it  between  his  teeth, 
touched  it  off,  and  blew  out  a  hurricane  of  smoke  before  him. 
From  behind  this  barricade,  which  hung  there  as  a  sort  of 
defence  against  whatever  arrows  the  good  secretary  might  in 
nocently  aim  at  his  breast,  he  said  : 

"  Tell  me — tell  me  all  you  know." 

"  Well,  as  to  that,  I  know  but  little,  save  the  fact  that  she 
has  a  history.  This  history — mind  you,  I  did  not  say  I  knew 
her  history ;  I  only  said  she  had  a  history.  That  is  all  I 
know — that  is  all,  perhaps,  that  the  secretary  of  the  Spanish 
Legation  has  a  right  to  know." 

And  here  the  cautious  novelist  looked  up  at  the  clock,  rose 
hastily,  pulled  at  a  bell  till  he  pulled  a  small  boy  in  lace  and 
buttons  into  his  presence,  handed  a  card  to  the  small  boy  in 
lace  and  buttons,  and  went  on — 

"  She  has  herself  been  in  battle  time  and  again." 

Murietta  half  rose  out  of  his  chair. 

"  Yes,  it  is  said  that  on  one  great  occasion  she  saved  a 
great  battle  to  her  section  of  the  sundered  country,  and  won 
the  love  and  eternal  admiration  of  all  the  State." 

"  Ah,  then,  there  is  blood  in  her  veins — there  is  fire  in  her 
blood — there  is " 

The  minister  entered  with  a  cigarette  in  full  smoke.  He 
•was  a  small,  fat  man,  and  moved  slowly  and  with  a  great 
deal  of  importance.  He  puffed  away  like  a  little  steamboat 


I2O  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

against  a  hard  stream,  and  fairly  blew  sparks  from  his  smoke 
stack  as  he  pulled  and  putted  at  his  cigarette. 

"  Yes,  Signor  Marietta  shall  have  letters  to  my  friend  the 
comandante  at  Barcelona.  He  is  my  very  dear  friend,  and 
will  do  all  he  can  for  you.  Mr.  Secretary,  you  will  draw  up 
letters  to  my  friend." 

The  minister  filled  a  chair,  after  first  examining  its  legs, 
and  back,  and  arms.  He  shut  his  eyes,  rested,  reflected, 
rolled  a  cigarette,  looked  up  to  the  ceiling,  and  went  on — 

"  But,  you  see,  you  cannot  get  into  Barcelona  now.  Be 
sides,  you  must  be  prepared  not  to  find  my  friend  in  com 
mand.  The  truth  is,  the  Government  is  very  active,  and  it 
removes  its  leaders  every  few  days.  They  want  new  blood, 
you  see.  No,  you  cannot  get  into  Barcelona  now.  You  had 
better  go  to  Madrid  at  once.  I  have  sent  a  great  many  gentle 
men  to  Madrid." 

"  And  what  can  I  do  at  Madrid  ?  " 

"  What  can  you  do  ?  Why,  wait,  as  the  others  do.  As 
fast  as  the  officers  are  killed  off,  vacancies  occur.  You  sit 
down  there ;  you  wait  your  turn.  If  the  war  keeps  on,  in  a 
few  years,  at  furthest,  you  will  find  yourself  at  the  head  of 
your  regiment." 

"  I  prefer  to  go  to  Barcelona.  When  can  I  have  my 
letters  ?  " 

"  Oh,  in  a  week  at  furthest ;  and  if  you  are  in  great  haste 
to  depart,  my  secretary  can  have  them  placed  in  your  hands 
•within  a  day  or  two." 

Murietta  bowed  before  this  little  man,  this  decrepit  repre- 
sentative  of  a  decrepit  government  in  the  decrepit  chair,  and 
shaking  the  hand  of  the  secretary,  went  out  perfectly  certain 
that  he  had  no  business  in  Spain. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


DOWN    THE    TIBER. 

HY  he  went  straight  to 
the  Corso  and  took  that 
end  of  it  leading  towards 
the  Capitoline,  Murietta 
would  not  even  have  con 
fessed  to  himself. 

He  soon  came   to  the 
great  palaces,    passed  on 
up  the  street  among  the 
crowds  of  people  saunter 
ing  along  in  the  middle  of  the  street, 
as  in  all  Italian  towns,  without  regard 
to  the  pavement,  and  perfectly  fear 
less  of  the  slow  coaches  and  carriages 
that   moved   good   naturedly  through 
the   crowd,   and  saw  the  open  court 
leading  into  the  great  palace,  as  described  bythe  secretary. 

He  lifted  his  hat,  walked  on  past,  turned  on  his  heel, 
walked  back  again,  again  lifted  his  hat,  crossed  the  street, 
stood  there,  looked  a  long  time  at  the  imposing  palace,  and 
then  walked  on  towards  the  Capitoline. 

"  It  is  utterly  impossible.     Not  only  that,  but  it   is  fatal 

to  entertain   the  thought  of  such  a  thing.      I  am  tired.     I 

have  worked,  and  fought,  and  travelled,  and  done  much  for 

others — little  for  myself.     I  will  sit  down  and  rest.     I  will 

6 


122  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

step  aside,  let  the  world  go  by,  and  watch  its  actions.  Doing 
nothing  myself,  bearing  no  part  in  the  play,  no  interest  in  it, 
no  care  further  than  to  be  amused,  I  will  laugh  at  its  mis 
takes,  and  mock  at  its  calamities." 

So  mused  Murietta  as  he  walked  on  toward  the  Capito- 
line.  He  went  there  as  a  wild  beast  would  have  gone  under 
the  same  circumstances. 

Turn  a  herd  of  wild  cattle  into  a  field  ;  they  all  run  at 
once,  bellowing,  to  the  highest  part  of  the  field,  to  take  a 
look  at  their  surroundings.  A  wild  deer  in  a  park,  antelope, 
and  all  such,  will  do  precisely  the  same  thing.  A  bear  will 
climb  the  stoutest  tree.  A  Avolf  will  sit  down  on  the  highest 
place  he  can  find,  and  howl  all  night. 

At  the  base  of  the  broad  step  you  will  see,  to  the  right, 
and  in  fact  almost  at  your  shoulder,  for  it  is  mounted  on  the 
end  of  the  balustrade,  a  tiger  in  blue  marble.  Mount  these 
steps,  crossing  to  the  other  side,  and  you  will  find  there  the 
little  she-wolf,  a  harmless  kind  of  coyote,  no  bigger  than  a 
sheep-dog,  and  quite  as  innocent.  It  is  the  wonder  of  the 
dozens  of  little  boys  forever  climbing  up  and  leaning  over 
the  balustrade.  It  is  under  the  eye  of  a  handsome  police 
man,  with  a  sword  by  his  side,  mounted  by  a  bronze  figure 
of  the  she-wolf  of  old  and  her  twins,  and  in  a  cocked  hat 
with  a  perfect  storm  of  red  cock's  feathers,  and  it  is  kept  at 
the  city's  expense. 

There  are  the  mighty  marble  figures  of  Castor  and  Pollux, 
found  after  a  thousand  years,  broken  up  and  in  bits,  beneath 
a  ruined  palace.  They  are  looking  straight  down  upon  the 
she-wolf,  and  stand  beside  their  great  marble  horses  in  line 
with  "  him  who  first  showed  his  imperial  successors  the  road 
to  heaven."  There  is  the  imiseum  to  the  left,  where  the 
"  Dying  Gladiator  "  and  the  hideous  old  brass  wolf — • 

"  The  thunder- stricken  nurse  of  Rome," 
are  kept,  and  from  that  high  balcony  overlooking  all  Home, 


Down  the   Tiber.  123 

the  new  king  proclaimed  his  presence  and  authority  to  the 
people  of  Rome. 

A  mighty  mounted  figure  in  bronze,  Marcus  Aurelius,  long 
thought  to  be  Constantino,  stands  in  the  centre  of  the  stony 
square  that  tops  the  Capitoline,  and  a  fountain  pours  from  a 
group  of  grand  and  imposing  marbles  to  the  left. 

Marietta  passed  these,  climbed  the  steps  to  the  right,  passed 
under  a  high  arch,  through  a  long  passage  into  a  narrow, 
dirty  street,  read  the  sign  which  some  enterprising  speculator 
had  put  up  at  the  entrance  to  a  garden  : 

"  This  is  the  entrance  to  the  Tarpeian  JRocJc." 

— and  passed  on  down  a  flight  of  steps  to  a  narrow  street  run 
ning  along  the  side  of  a  steep  hill. 

A  pretty  Roman  woman  was  standing  on  the  steps,  with  a 
little  boy  in  a  cap  which  showed  that  he  belonged  to  the  new 
schools  established  by  the  Government.  The  woman  had  a 
pleasant  face.  The  boy  was  perfectly  beautiful.  There  was 
a  sign  over  the  door. 

"  You  have  apartments  to  let  ?  " 

"Yes,  signor." 

"  Can  I  see  them  ?  " 

The  woman  lifted  her  brows  a  little.  No  doubt  she  was 
thinking,  "  This  man  has  committed  a  crime  and  wishes  to 
hide.  What  else  could  bring  him  to  this  part  of  the  town  ?  " 

Then  she  said — 

"  Will  you  so  honor  me  ?  " 

And  leading  the  way  she  climbed  two  flights  of  stairs, 
pushed  open  a  door,  passed  into  a  little  hall  with  a  fine  view  of 
St.  Peter's  and  Monte  Mario  from  the  window,  to  the  north, 
and  then  opening  a  door  to  the  south  side  of  the  hall,  bade 
the  artist  enter. 

A  brick  floor,  the  least  bit  of  crazy  furniture.  It  was  a 
cell.  There  was  a  bedroom  adjoining.  A  little  iron  bed 
stead,  a  stand,  a  chair,  a  rush  mat  to  protect  the  feet  from 


124  The  One  Fair    Woman. 

the  dusty  bricks  as  you  got  in  and  out  of  bed,  and  that 
was  all. 

While  they  talked  of  the  views  from  the  windows,  the 
fine  air,  and  all  that,  a  sister  came  and  stood  by  the  side  of 
the  pretty  matronly  Roman  woman.  Then  as  they  talked  of 
bed  and  board,  another  sister  came  and  stood  in  the  room. 
Then  he  asked  the  price.  As  he  did  so,  another  pretty  Roman 
givl,  with  curls  all  about  her  face,  came  in,  and  stood  and 
looked  in  silence  with  her  great  chestnut  eyes  on  the  stran 
ger. 

This  charmed  him.  This  would  not  be  a  cheerless  home 
at  all.  He  could  buy  carpets  and  get  a  heater  for  the  rooms, 
and  from  this  lofty  look-out  watch  the  world  go  by,  and  laugh 
when  he  could  and  weep  when  he  must. 

He  counted  down  the  fifty  francs  for  a  month,  and  was  per 
fectly  content.  The  pretty  girls  began  to  arrange  the  rooms 
as  he  directed,  and  to  laugh  like  so  many  fountains  as  they 
moved  about. 

Returning  to  his  hotel,  he  was  aboiit  to  enter  a  cab  to  re 
turn  to  his  lodgings,  when  the  formidable  woman,  the  special 
correspondent  in  gold  spectacles,  stretched  out  her  bony  arm 
as  a  sort  of  barrier. 

"  And  you  are  going  ?  " 

"Going." 

"  Where,  where  ?  The  world,  papers  I  represent,  will 
wish  to  know  where." 

«  Down  the  Tiber." 

"  Ah,  down  the  Tiber,  down  the  Tiber.  Now  we  shall 
have  some  famous  pictures  to  be  called  '  Views  on  the  Tiber.' 
Am  I  not  correct  ?  Yes,  yes,  I  will  so  state  it  in  my  next." 

And  as  Murietta  climbed  into  the  cab  she  whipped  out  a 
note-book,  scribbled  a  second,  and  then,  as  fearing  he  would 
escape,  threw  out  the  long  arm  again,  clutched  his  leg,  and 
held  him  fast. 

"  You  will  not  forget  my  plan  for  shipping  pictures  to 


Down  the   Tiber.  125 

America.  My  plan  is,  you  remember,  to  establish  a  regular 
line  of  ships  for  taking  pictures  regularly  every  month  from 
Rome  to  the  States.  That  will  give  room  for  our  American 
artists  to  work.  That  will  encourage  them.  It  will  encour 
age  you,  will  it  not  ?  Only  fancy,  a  ship-load  of  pictures  every 
month  !  That  will  keep  at  least  half  of  the  American  artists 
in  steady  work.  Think  of  it,  think  of  it !  It  is  a  great 
humanitarian  movement.  A  thought,  it  is,  worthy  of  your 
self.  In  fact,  in  my  next  I  shall  so  state  it.  That  will  give 
it  more  weight ;  perhaps  that  will  get  the  matter  before  Con 
gress — get  a  subsidy — in  fact,  make  a  fortune.  Think  of  it, 
think  of  it !  It  will  pay ;  I  tell  you  it  will  pay.  Besides 
the  pictures  we  would  ship  statuary.  The  statuary  would 
serve  for  ballast  to  the  ship.  We  could  ballast  every  ship 
with  statuary  by  American  artists.  That  would  also  give 
room  for,  and  employment  to,  the  American  sculptors.  Think 
of  it,  think  of  it !  It  is  valuable,  worthy  of  your  co-opera 
tion.  It  will  pay,  it  will  pay.  Pictures  and  marble,  mar 
ble  and  pictures,  by  the  ship-load." 

The  fearful  woman  here  whipped  out  her  note-book  again, 
and  began  to  write.  The  little  actor  on  the  box,  who  had 
seen  all  this  and  understood,  though  he  did  not  understand 
a  word,  now  let  off  his  double  string  of  fire-crackers,  and 
while  the  fearful  woman  clutched  after  Murietta  and  still 
called  out  that  it  would  "  pay,"  he  drove  frooi  under  the 
shadow  of  the  "  Angleterre,"  and  into  the  Via  Montenare 
by  the  ancient  Theatre  of  Marcellus.  Here  Murietta  handed 
his  actor  with  the  fire-crackers  a  franc,  gave  his  trunk  into 
the  hands  of  a  man  who  sat  there  mending  chairs,  and, 
mounting  the  rough  steps  that  led  up  under  the  shadow  of 
the  Tarpeian  Rock,  was  soon  inside  his  cell,  looking  down  at 
the  world,  watching  it,  and  trying  to  laugh. 

He  fell  to  thinking -in  spite  of  himself,  and  when  the  pretty 
Roman  girl  brought  him  his  tea,  and  only  roused  him  by 
touching  his  shoulder  and  telling  him  his  toast  would  get 


126  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

cold,  he  rose  up  in  a  sort  of  stupor.  He  went  to  the  window, 
looked  out  on  the  Theatre  of  Maroellus,  up  and  away  across 
the  Tiber  to  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  then  turned  to  the 
pretty  girl,  and,  remembering  that  he  had  come  there  to  be 
cheerful,  tried  to  laugh.  The  pretty  Roman  girl  shook  her  head, 
opened  her  eyes  very  wide,  looked  at  the  artist  sideways,  and 
then  went  out. 

The  four  sisters  grouped  their  pretty  heads  together  and 
shook  their  curls  doubtingly,  for  the  prettiest  one  had  told 
them  that  when  the  man  laughed  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 


PEOPLE   OF   THE   CAMPAGNA. 


much  Murietta  professed 
to  like  his  tower  on — or  rather  under 
— the  Tarpeian  Rock,  and  however 
much  he  tried  to  persuade  himself 
that  it  was  just  what  he  wanted  and 
that  he  was  just  where  he  ought  to 
Le,  and  that  he  was,  finally,  very 
philosophic  and  perfectly  happy,  he 
certainly  was  very  miserable. 

Gaze  as  he  would  from  his  window 
out  on  the  fresh  green  trees  that 
topped  the  Palatine  Hill  just  visible 
over  the  lower  end  of  the  Capitoline,  he  kept 
all  the  time  thinking  of  her.  Do  what  he 
might,  turn  where  he  would  through  the 
labyrinths  of  old  Rome  where  the  Jews  had 
been  penned  up  for  a  thousand  years,  and 
where  Time  had  sat  down  in  a  hopeless  siege  before  old  tufa- 
built  battlements — he  all  the  time  saw  that  one  woman,  and 
thought  of  her  and  only  her.  He  had  thought  of  her  all  his 
life.  But  then  he  had  thought  of  her  with  hope.  Now  it 
was  only  with  despair. 

Plow  different  all  things  seemed  ! 

Hope  is  day.     All  life,  all  things,  glitter  in  the  sun  ;  and 


128  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

the  world  goes  by  as  to  the  march  of  music.  When  Hope 
lies  down  and  dies,  then  it  is  night.  You  cannot  move  ;  you 
cannot  see.  You  want  to  curse,  and  die  too. 

Yet  this  man  was  not  altogether  a  child  in  his  weakness. 
He  made  strong  efforts  to  rally.  Like  an  old  Greek  thrown 
down  in  battle,  he  would  still  fight,  still  endeavor  to  rise,  to 
throw  off  the  weight  that  was  crushing  him,  and  go  on 
to  the  end,  if  only  to  see  what  that  end  might  be.  He  would 
wait  for  the  to-morrows  as  they  should  come  filing  by  in  line 
one  after  the  other,  if  only  to  see  what  they  had  to  give. 

He  had  the  two  little  cells  carpeted,  and  this  gave  them  a 
more  cheerful  face.  There  was  no  stove,  uo  fireplace ;  what 
was  to  be  done  ? 

He  spoke  to  the  pretty  padrona. 

"Ah  no;  there  are  no  stoves  or  fireplaces  in  all  this  part 
of  Rome." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  for  a  fire?  the  nights  begin  to 
grow  chill  ?  " 

"  I  will  show  you." 

She  tripped  out  under  her  great  folds  of  rich  black  hair, 
and  brought  in  a  little  earthen  pot' with  a  handle  bent  over 
the  top  like  a  flower-basket,  and  held  it  up  warm  and  glowing 
witli  its  little  handful  of  burning  charcoal. 

"  There  !  that  is  the  Roman  fireplace.  See  here  !  "  She 
stepped  to  the  bed-room,  threw  back  the  blankets,  parted  the 
sheets,  and  ran  the  smooth,  glazed  bottom  of  the  little  basket 
of  burning  coal  over  the  sheets. 

She  held  it  up  again.  "  See  !  Here  we  set  the  tea-pot ; 
there  we  boil  o\ir  kettle ;  here  we  broil  the  meat ;  here  we 
warm  our  hands.  This  is  fireplace,  parlour-stove,  cook-stove, 
and  warming-pan." 

She  held  the  little  basket  of  fire  up  admiringly,  and  then 
handed  it  to  Murietta,  who  set  it  down  in  the  middle  of  his 
little  parlour,  and  soon  felt  the  room  grow  warm  and  comfort 
able.  The  pretty  Roman  women  looked  in  through  the  half- 


People  of  the  Campagjia.  129 

opened  door,  as  lie  sat  tliere  warming  his  hands  and  won 
dering  at  this  primitive  contrivance,  and  laughed.  Not 
knowing  what  else  to  do,  Marietta  laughed  also. 

"  What  a  singular  man ! "  thought  the  little  head  as  it 
moved  away  under  the  great  folds  of  midnight  hair.  And 
then  she  tripped  away  downstairs  singing  an  opera  as  she 
went. 

There  was  a  gentle  tap  at  the  bed-room  door  at  ten  in  the 
morning. 

"  Avanti !  " 

The  door  pushed  open  ;  a  pretty  little  Roman  woman  en 
tered  with  a  little  tray  held  high  up,  as  it  is  always  held  in 
Italy ;  and  she  bowed  and  smiled  and  blushed,  and  then 
laughed  like  a  school-girl. 

There  was  a  little  steaming  pot  of  tea,  a  roll  of  bread,  and 
a  little  platter  of  butter.  She  wheeled  up  a  little  stand  by 
the  bedside,  set  her  tray  there,  and  all  the  time  talking  in  a 
light  laughing  way,  she  seemed  to  fill  the  whole  house  with, 
sunshine. 

Murietta  was  delighted  ;  he  rose  up  like  a  bolstered  inva 
lid,  poured  out  the  steaming  tea,  broke  bread,  and  as  the 
laughing  little  woman  stood  by  under  her  storm  of  black  hair, 
he  said,  "Dolce  far  niente"  and  laughed  also. 

And  then  he  looked  at  this  woman's  dress,  this  pretty 
woman  who  stood  by  his  bedside  waiting  to  serve  him,  or 
rather  he  looked  at  her  want  of  dress,  and  was  amazed. 
Her  shoulders  were  bare  almost  to  anywhere.  She  was 
hardly  dressed  at  all.  The  dress  across  her  bosom  reached 
and  tiptoed  and  tried  hard  to  get  up  and  hide  her  beauty, 
but  in  vain.  The  truth  is,  she  was  dressed  almost  as  scan 
tily  as  a  belle  at  a  fashionable  ball-room.  And  yet  she  did 
not  blush  or  seem  ashamed. 

<c  Ah  yes,  she  had  been  to  church,  to  mass  ;  they  had  all 
been  to  church.  They  never  missed  going  to  church  on  the 
Sunday.  And  this  was  Sunday." 


130  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

The  artist  rose  at  last,  dressed,  and  went  down  the  crooked 
lane  and  down  the  crazy  stone  steps  with  grass  springing  up 
all  along  between  the  kerbs.  He  came  to  the  Yia  Monteuare. 
What  a  crowd  of  people  !  And  such  people  !  They  were  wild 
as  Indians.  They  were  clad  in  sheepskins  and  blue  woollen 
clothes  spun  and  woven  or  the  primitive  looms  that  were  in 
use  ere  Rome  had  a  name  or  a  place  on  the  Palatine. 

The  tight  blue  breeches  of  the  men  reached  down  to  the 
knee.  There  they  were  met  by  long  hose  wound  and 
bound  tight  as  drums  by  cords  and  thongs  that  showed 
the  muscle  to  a  fine  advantage.  The  feet  were  bound 
in  sandals  made  of  the  buffalo  skin.  The  hair  hung  long 
and  bushy  down  the  back  or  about  the  shoulders,  and  the 
head  was  covered  by  a  tall  bell-crowned  hat,  Avith  braid, 
black,  and  ornamented  by  at  least  one  feather.  This  hat 
always  sat  jauntily  on  the  side  of  the  head,  and  you  felt  cer 
tain  that  the  man  had  just  come  upon  the  boards  before  you, 
and  you  always  kept  expecting  him  to  begin  to  say  his  piece. 
There  was  always  a  long  large  cloak  in  the  possession  of  each 
of  these  wild  actors,  but  you  could  never  see  them  wear  them. 
They  were  generally  hung  over  the  left  shoulder,  sometimes 
out  on  the  arm  as  a  soldier  wears  a  shield.  It  is  safe  to  say 
that  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  in  any  thousand  of  these 
men  had  a  knife  up  his  sleeve  or  down  his  leg. 

What  a  splendid  set  of  savages  they  were  to  be  sure  ! 

Tall,  supple,  nervous,  bright-eyed  and  restless,  they  swayed, 
crowded,  pushed  through  the  streets  together,  talked,  laughed, 
bantered  the  black-eyed  women,  and  seemed  quite  at  home  in 
the  dirty  narrow  little  piazza  of  Montenare. 

But  these  men  never  ventured  into  the  new  and  civilized 
part  of  the  city.  Even  where  they  were,  they  kept  close  to 
gether,  looked  warily  at  every  man  dressed  in  the  modern 
style,  and  did  not  at  all  mix  with  the  people  of  Rome. 

These  were  the  men  of  the  Campagna  and  of  the  lower 
Tiber.  They  poured  into  the  city  from  seven  in  the  morning 


People  of  the   Campagna.  131 

till  two  in  the  afternoon ;  and  then  the  tide  began  to  set 
back.  Before  the  sun  was  down,  there  was  not  one  of  their 
number  to  be  found  in  the  city. 

They  seemed  to  be  innumerable.  They  filled  up  the  nar 
row  roads  and  streets  for  miles  and  miles.  They  always 
came  into  the  city  by  the  gate  of  St.  Paul.  They  would  net 
enter  by  any  other.  The  wrongs  and  oppressions  of  the  city 
for  two  thousand  years  could  not  be  forgotten.  These  wild 
men  still  believe  that  Rome  is  Rome.  They  cannot  under 
stand  that  there  is  any  law  or  obedience  to  law  in  the  city. 
That  is  the  reason  they  carry  knives  in  their  sleeves,  and  carry 
their  cloaks  on  their  arms  like  shields,  and  always  enter  at 
the  same  gate,  and  pour  in  like  an  army  of  barbarians  about 
to  sack  the  city,  and  stick  together  in  a  solid  mass,  and 
always  return  before  nightfall  and  in  a  close  body  as  they 
come. 

You  see  them  only  on  Sunday,  and  at  these  certain  hours, 
and  in  this  certain  street,  and  under  the  dark  and  solemn 
shadows  of  the  Theatre  of  Marcellus.  If  you  remain  up  on 
the  Corso  and  in  new  Rome,  you  will  not  see  one  of  these 
people  in  a  lifetime. 

Sometimes  as  they  enter  you  will  see  a  woman  in  the  mass 
laden  down  with  produce  for  traffic,  and  you  will  see  also 
hundreds  of  little  mules  and  asses  moving  along  with  enly 
their  legs  below  and  their  ears  above,  visible  from  out  the 
load  of  fruit  or  vegetables  being  borne  into  the  city  for  sale. 
But  the  men,  like  the  true  Indians,  refuse  to  bear  loads. 
They  step  high  and  free,  their  heads  thrown  back  as  if  they 
walked  the  stage  and  were  about  to  act  a  tragedy ;  their 
hands  are  on  their  knives ;  their  shields  are  on  their  arms. 

As  they  return,  you  will  see  every  ass  and  every  mule 
loaded  with  bread.  All  the  bread  for  miles  and  miles  around 
the  city,  is  baked  in  Rome. 

This  bread  for  the  peasants  is  black  and  ugly  and  sour.  It 
is  baked  in  a  hoop  or  circle,  a  hole  in  the  centre  like  a  grind- 


132  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

ing-stone.  Through  this  hole  a  rope  is  passed,  and  twenty, 
thirty,  forty  cakes  are  stmng  together,  and  then  swung 
around  the  neck  of  a  mule  or  over  a  woman's  shoulders. 

There  is  nothing  in  Rome  or  out  of  Rome  so  wild,  so  pic 
turesque,  so  interesting,  as  this  herd  of  half-tamed  people 
pouring  out  of  Rome  on  their  way  to  their  little  h'uts  and 
their  homes  in  caves  and  old  ruins,  away  out  on  the  deso 
lated  and  desert-like  Campagna.  Where  did  these  people 
come  from  ?  Who  are  they,  and  what  will  they  accomplish  ? 
Is  this  the  blood  of  Brutxis  you  see  here  in  this  stern,  proud 
face  ?  Is  that  woman  in  gay  and  beautiful  colors  a  daughter 
of  Cornelia  ?  Did  that  man's  fathers  found  the  city  of  Lon 
don,  or  overthrow  Jerusalem  ? 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


REAL   COUNTESSES. 


'TJR1ETTA  returned  and  mused 
at  his  window,  which  took  in 
a  corner  of  the  Palatine  Hill. 
There  was  a  gentle  tap  at  the 
half-open  door,  and  the  eldest 
of  the  four  sisters  entered.  She 
came  in  softly,  silently,  sweet 
ly,  as  if  she  had  been  a  ray  of 
the  Italian  sun. 

"  You  are  very  welcome.    It 
is  lonesome  here.     Sunday  is  a 
busy  day  in  Rome,  and  I  know  no  one 
and  have  nothing  to  do." 

He  handed  a  chair  to  the  pretty 
woman  under  the  great  tent  of  black 
and  abundant  hair,  and  she  sat  down 
by  the  half-open  door.  Then  one  of  the  other  pretty  women, 
in  another  tent  of  black  and  abundant  hair,  came,  and  he 
handed  her  a  chair,  and  also  told  her  she  too  was  welcome. 

Murietta  was  just  about  to  open  conversation,  when 
another  sister  entered,  and,  taking  a  proffered  chair,  sat  down 
in  a  line  just  like  the  others.  And  then  the  other  came. 
The  same  languid,  dreamy  expression,  the  same  quiet  refine 
ment,  the  same  expression  in  all.  You  could  not  tell  them 
apart  any  more  than  you  could  separate  them.  If  one  sister 
made  her  appearance,  you  had  as  well  set  out  the  four  chairs 
all  in  a  line  first  as  last. 


134  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"And  you  are  Romans  ?" 

The  ladies  looked  at  each  other  and  smiled.  They  had  evi 
dently  come  in  on  this  Sunday  afternoon  to  see  what  manner 
of  man  this  stranger  was. 

"  And  has  your  family  been  long  in  Rome  ?" 

"  About  two  thousand  years.  Perhaps  a  great  deal  more, 
but  that  is  as  far  back  as  we  can  trace  our  family  with  cer 
tainty." 

Murietta  was  a  little  disgusted.  He  had  had  the  honor  of 
knowing  some  illustrious  people,  whose  ancestors  had  crossed 
the  Channel  with  the  Conqueror,  but  this  set  all  that  quite 
in  the  shade. 

"  But  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  find  your  name  so 
far  back  as  that  ?" 

"  It  is  simply  a  fact  which  we  have  but  little  interest  in, 
and  with  which  we  have  nothing  to  do,"  answered  the  elder 
gently.  "  When  you  come  to  know  that  there  are  beggars 
in  Rome,  and  plenty  of  them,  too,  whose  fathers  are  named 
in  history  as  the  friends  or  foes  of  Caesar,  you  may  under 
stand  how  little  interest  we  take  in  the  fact  that  our  family 
has  been  known  in  Rome  for  twenty  centuries." 

"  Then  you  are  of  the  titled  people — of  the  old  patrician 
families  ?  " 

"  Our  family,"  gently  sighed  the  elder,  "  was  always  one 
of  rank.  Revolutions,  invasions,  persecutions,  confiscations, 
and  so  on,  left  it  poor.  Not  being  fortunate  enough  to  ever 
have  a  Pope  in  the  family,  we  find  that  when  it  has  come  to 
our  turn  to  represent  our  house,  it  is  poor  indeed,  and  even 
its  name  is  covered  up  and  obscured  by  newer  names  that 
now  have  the  ear  of  the  world  and  of  Rome." 

"  Then  you  ladies  are  ladies  of  rank  ?  " 

"  Countesses  in  our  own  right." 

There  was  a  touch  of  tenderness  in  the  words  of  these 
beautiful  women,  and  their  quiet  dignity  had  much  to  say 
in  their  favor. 


Real  Countesses.  135 

"And  your  father?" 

"  O  yes,  our  dear  good  father.  You  have  not  seen  him 
yet.  He  is  at  church  still,  for  he  is  very  pious.  And 
then  you  will  not  see  him  in  the  week,  for  he  works  very 
hard,  and  conies  home  late,  and  rises  and  goes  down  to  his 
work  very  early." 

"  And  do  tell  me,  please,  what  he  finds  to  do  in  Eome  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  makes  antiquities." 

The  black  eyes  looked  at  each  other,  looked  across  at  Mu- 
rietta,  danced  a  cotillion  about  the  room,  and  the  elder  beauty 
went  on.  "  He  has  a  little  shop  in  the  Theatre  of  Marcellus, 
down  across  the  Via  Montenare.  It  is  only  a  stone's  throw 
distant ;  and  I  go  with  him,  and  I  work  with  him,  too,  and 
I  return  with  him.  The  good,  good  father !  How  kind 
and  patient  he  is  ?  " 

The  black  eyes  danced  and  glistened  again,  but  this  time 
with  tears. 

"  Antiquities  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes  !  shall  I  tell  you  ?  " 

"Will  you  tell  me?" 

"  Certainly ;  why  not  ?  "Well,  we  make  ancient  coins. 
We  have  also  some  Etruscan  vessels  on  hand  which  were 
made  last  year;  but  the  best  things  to  sell  are  coins." 

"  Coins  ?  " 

"  Yes,  old  copper  coins,  as  far  back  even  as  the  Etruscans. 
But  the  best  ones  to  sell  are  those  of  the  Roman  Emperors. 
And  the  best  emperor  to  sell  is  Vespasian." 

"  And  the  worst  ?  " 

"  The  worst  is  Nero.  I  can't  at  all  make  it  out,  but  no 
body  buys  Nero.  A  handsome  man,  too,  he  is ;  at  least  we 
make  him  so  ;  but  somehow  the  English  have  a  prejudice 
against  Nero,  and  he  will  not  sell  at  all.  We  lost  a  great 
deal  of  money  on  Nero,  and  shall  probably  have  to  melt 
him  over  again  and  make  him  into  Vespasian." 

"  And  how  in  the  name  of  science  do  you  make  them  look 
so  old?" 


136  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

Marietta  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  held  up  a  coin  which, 
he  had  bought  that  very  morning  from  a  wretched  old  man 
who  professed  to  have  found  it  in  a  field. 

The  ladies  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed. 

"  Ah,  I  see  Pietro  has  been  busy  selling  his  wares  on  Sun 
day.  It  is  wrong  to  sell  them  on  Sunday,  and  to  you.  That 
is  too  bad.  But  I  will  tell  you.  This  coin  you  see  is  one  we 
made  last  week.  You  will  observe  that  it  is  very  light. 
Well,  it  is  not  copper,  but  composition,  a  kind  of  bronze.  It 
is  made  very  porous,  is  still  malleable,  and  will  take  the  im 
pression  of  the  ugly  misshapen  stamp  designed  for  it.  Now  it 
is  thrown  into  boiling  oil,  then  it  is  cast  a  moment  into  acids, 
then  it  is  boiled  in  a  kettle  of  copperas  and  other  composition 
till  it  takes  on  this  ancient  coat  of  green,  and  is  ready  for  the 
market." 

K  And  you  will  make  a  fortune  at  this  ?  " 

"  A  fortune  ?  We  barely  make  our  bread.  There  is  too 
much  competition.  Every  man  may  embark  in  the  business 
who  chooses.  There  is  no  secret  among  the  trade  about 
making  these  coins  that  is  not  known  to  all,  and  no  one  gets 
any  more  than  barely  pays  for  his  labor." 

"  And  is  it  not  dishonest  ?  " 

"  Dishonest  ?  Can  it  be  possible  that  the  thousands  and 
hundreds  of  thousands  who  buy  these  coins  can  really  sus 
pect  that  they  are  real  ?  Why,  they  must  know  that  there 
are  more  copper  coins  carried  out  of  Rome  every  year  than 
coiild  have  been  found  at  any  time  within  the  walls  of  all  old 
Rome  !  The  traveller  wants  them  ;  we  produce  them.  I  do 
not  see  the  difference  between  this  and  any  other  kind  of 
manufacture.  If  we  thought  it  wrong  or  thought  any  one 
defrauded,  we  certainly  should  not  follow  it.  Yet  I  do  not 
see  what  else  we  could  find  to  do  in  Rome.  It  is  a  hard, 
hard  place  for  the  poor." 

"  You  make  only  coins  ?" 

"  No,  we  make  tear  bottles,  also." 


Real  Countesses.  137 

"  Tear  bottles  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  also  a  few  Egyptian  antiquities.  But  these  do 
not  sell  so  well.  We  made  an  Egyptian  sphinx,  and  then  an 
Egyptian  cat ;  but  we  had  to  melt  them  both  up  again,  and 
so  turned  them  into  bronze  and  sold  them  for  Vespasians." 

"  And  so  you  make  these  pretty  little  tear  bottles  too  ?" 

<(  Tear  bottles  !  oh  yes  !"  laughed  the  pretty  countesses  in 
their  own  right  in  a  chorus,  and  the  great  black  eyes  danced 
another  cotillion  around  the  room.  "  Yes,  we  make  tear 
bottles  thousands  and  thousands  of  years  old.  We  sometimes 
see  old  Pietro  selling  our  newest  and  best  pattern  of  old  tear 
bottles,  and  we  stand  by,  and  hear  the  English  purchaser  tell 
just  how  old  it  is,  the  age  in  which  it  was  cast,  the  kind  of 
foreign  workman  who  came  to  Rome  on  purpose  to  make  it, 
and  all  about  it  from  beginning  to  end — while  old  Pietro  bows 
his  head  before  such  wisdom  and  such  knowledge  about  his 
country,  and  says  never  a  word." 

"  But  this  peculiar  glint,  this  shade,  this  rose  and  vermilion 
hue  ?"  Here  Murietta  fished  out  of  his  vest  pocket  a  little 
bottle  which  he  had  bought  that  very  day,  and  handed  it  to 
the  elder  sister.  The  ladies  laughed  again,  and  again  the 
eight  bright  black  eyes  danced  a  cotillion  around  the  hand  of 
the  artist. — "  This  rose  hue,  I  say,  cannot  be  counterfeited  ? 
Glass,  I  am  told,  only  takes  that  shade  after  it  is  buried  for 
ages  from  the  light." 

Again  the  pretty  ladies  laughed,  and  they  all  rose  up  and 
stood  in  a  row,  and  then  stood  around  the  artist,  who  also 
rose  up ;  and  they  all  made  little  speeches  and  all  got  quite 
•  eloquent,  and  on  the  very  best  possible  terms  with  the  simple 
artist  who  had  been  buying  their  wares,  which  old  Pietro  had 
been  selling  that  morning  while  he  should  have  been  at  church. 

A  sabre  rattled  on  the  narrow  stone  step,  and  a  door  was 
heard  to  open  on  the  left  side  of  the  stairway. 

Murietta  listened,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  the  little  array 
of  countesses. 


138  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  Prince  Trawaska." 

"Who?" 

"  That  is  the  Prince  Trawaska,"  repeated  the  eldest  coun 
tess,  while  the  younger  sister  blushed  and  modestly  looked 
out  of  the  window  toward,  the  Palatine  Hill. 

"  Yes,  the  prince  has  taken  a  room  with  us  along  with 
Count  Paolini.  You  see,  the  prince  has  only  the  pay  of  a 
captain  in  the  Italian  army,  and  it  is  not  enough  to  keep  a 
gentleman  who  has  been  gently  reared,  so  he  is  always  em 
barrassed,  and  has  come  to  live  with  us." 

"  And  then  I  have  countesses  for  companions  and  land 
ladies,  and  a  prince  for  my  next-room  neighbor  ?  " 

"  True.  But  the  prince  is  very  proud,  and  might  not 
prove  so  friendly  after  all.  He  goes  to  Court,  and  fights 
duels,  and  drinks  wine  till  he  is  drunk,  and,  in  fact,  is  a 
perfect  prince  and  high-class  gentleman." 

"And  the  Count  Paolini?"  queried  the  artist,  as  he 
swung  his  cloak  over  his  arm  preparatory  to  going  out. 

There  were  only  six  black  eyes  in  the  cotillion  this  time, 
for  the  two  eyes  of  one  of  the  pretty  countesses  fell  down  and 
began  to  number  the  stripes  on  the  cai-pet  as  soon  as  the  name 
of  the  count  was  mentioned. 

j  "  Well,  Paolini  is  a  lieutenant,  a  fine,  handsome  fellow,  and 
• — ask  sister  if  he  is  not !  "  and  here  three  ladies  laughed,  and 
one  looked  down  in  silence,  the  soul  of  love  and  of  truth. 
i  The  artist  threw  his  cloak  over  his  shoulder,  and  the  four 
ladies  disappeared,  laughing,  looking  back,  lifting  their  hands, 
turning  their  heads  as  only  Italians  can,  just  as  if  they  had 
been  playing  a  great  piece,  and  had  been  encored  to  the  echo, 
and  were  now  modestly  trying  to  escape  applause  and  admi 
ration. 

Down  the  narrow  stone  stairs  that  only  the  wind  had 
swept  for  centuries,  and  folding  his  cloak  about  him,  the  ar 
tist  passed  on  under  the  little  lamp  that  burned  in  a  niche  in 
the  wall  at  the  feet  of  the  blue  Madonna,  and  then  down  the 


Real  Countesses.  139 

rough  steps,  and  under  the  ugly  arch  he  stood  in  the  Via 
Montenare. 

"A  Prince  and  a  Count  for  next-room  neighbors.  A  Count 
and  a  Prince,  and  two  of  my  pretty  Countesses  in  love  with 
them,  and  the  fortune  of  all  four  tied  up  in  a  little  bag  of 
brass  Vespasian  pennies.  Well,  that  is  pretty  enough !  "  mused 
the  artist,  as  he  walked  on  under  the  shadow  of  the  Tarpeian 
Rock.  "A  pretty  story  it  would  make — and  it  means  either 
romance  or  mischief." 

Murietta  rattled  his  ancient  Vespasian  copper  against  the 
little  tear  bottle  in  his  pocket,  and  laughed.  "Ha,  ha;  I 
am  learning  the  lines  and  the  ways  in  Rome !  " 

The  peasants  were  melting  away,  and  flowing  like  a  flood 
down  the  Tiber  and  oxit  through  the  gate  of  St.  Paid. 

There  was  an  old  woman  sitting  up  against  the  ancient  and 
battle-beaten  wall  of  the  Theatre  of  Marcellus.  She  had  a 
pair  of  scales  in  her  right  hand,  held  up  and  out  as  if  she  was 
a  sort  of  wrinkled  ghost  of  the  ancient  figure  of  Justice.  Be 
fore  her,  on  the  ground,  sat  a  long  willow  basket  divided  into 
three  compartments.  In  the  left-hand  compartment  were 
stumps  of  cigars  in  a  very  fair  state  of  preservation.  In  the 
middle  compartment  were  stumps  that  had  been  trodden  on 
and  flattened  out  and  soaked  for  a  night  or  two  in  rain  and 
sewerage.  The  other  end  held  a  third,  and  if  possible  a  still 
worse  quality  of  tobacco. 

"Ah,"  grumbled  a  man  who  was  driving  a  hard  bargain 
with  this  old  woman,  "  I  do  not  mind  it  so  much  if  you  sell 
me  cabbage  leaves  for  tobacco  if  they  are  only  nice  cabbage 
leaves.  But  when  you  sell  me  cabbage  leaves  for  tobacco 
and  the  leaves  are  rotten,  then  I  do  not  like  it." 

These  stumps  are  gathered  from  the  streets  of  Rome  by 
boys  and  girls,  who  seem  to  make  it  their  only  business.  At 
evening,  midnight,  or  morning,  you  will  see  men  gliding 
along,  bowed  over,  looking  down,  pushing  a  lamp  before  them, 
groping  under  carriages,  squeezing  themselves  in  between 


140  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

walls  and  in  the  filthiest  places  you  can  think  of.  They  have 
a  leather  bag  by  their  side  and  they  look  like  devils.  They 
are  homeless,  degraded  sons  of  the  Caesars,  picking  up  cigar 
stumps  which  the  barbarous  Briton  throws  away  in  the  street. 

Take  a  walk  or  drive  some  day  on  the  Pincian  Hill  or  in 
the  Borghese  with  a  half  finished  cigar  in  your  teeth.  Pretty 
soon  you  will  see  the  black  eyes  of  some  one  watching  you 
from  behind  a  bust  of  Columbus  or  Archimedes.  You  move 
on,  arid  the  black  eyes  follow  you  from  tree  to  tree,  from  -bust 
to  bust.  Your  carriage  is  followed  as  a  shark  follows  a  ship 
when  a  man  is  dying.  Your  cigar  is  finished,  thrown  aside ; 
the  black  eyes  follow  it,  a  man  darts  forward,  and  it  is  scarcely 
allowed  to  touch  the  ground. 

Sometimes  you  may  see  an  Italian  count  or  a  Polish  prince 
watching  that  cigar  with  a  very  hungry  interest.  This  count 
or  this  prince,  as  the  case  may  be,  is  not  a  merchant,  not  he ! 
Still  he  often  lifts  his  eyes  to  the  unfinished  cigar,  and  won 
ders  when  the  Western  barbarian  will  have  done  with  it. 
This  count  or  prince  is  well  dressed.  His  clothes  may  be  a 
bit  threadbare.  His  hat  may  have  come  into  fashion  and 
gone  out  of  fashion  for  halfa-dozen  seasons;  yet,  for  all, 
he  is  fairly  dressed,  and  walks  with  all  the  air  of  a  gentleman, 
a  prince,  or  a  count. 

He  follows  that  burning  cigar  as  if  it  were  a  beacon  light. 
He  takes  cuts  across  the  drive,  and  seems  to  be  looking  at 
this  bed  of  flowers,  or  admiring  that  work  of  art  in  the  gar 
dens  of  the  capital  of  Italy.  Yet  his  eyes  are  lifted  patiently 
to  his  beacon  light,  and  he  watches  always  and  waits  his  time. 

At  last  you  lean  back,  take  out  your  cigar-case,  bite  off  the 
end  of  a  new  cigar  like  an  indolent  man  as  you  are,  to  ride  in 
a  carriage  in  Rome,  and  lighting  it  by  the  old  stump  twirl  it 
about  in  your  fingers,  and  toss  the  stump  to  the  side  of  the 
road. 

The  prince  and  the  beggar  are  face  to  face.  But  the 
prince  strides  right  ahead  as  if  he  would  tread  upon  the 


Real  Countesses.  141 

base-born  gatherer  of  cigar  stumps,  and  the  poor  plebeian  is 
driven  from  his  rightful  prey  by  the  Italian  count  or  the 
Polish  prince. 

The  Polish  prince  or  the  Italian  count  walks  straight  on 
and  looks  high  up  as  if  he  was  reading  the  mystical  signs  on 
the  Egyptian  obelisk,  and  had  never  seen  a  cigar  stump  in  all 
his  life. 

He  is  stepping  across  the  spot  where  the  smoke  of  a  cigar 
stump  comes  stealing  up  through  the  grass  by  the  side  of  the 
drive.  His  eyes  are  still  on  the  obelisk  ;  he  has  quite  fright 
ened  the  beggar  away ;  but  the  beggar  has  turned  from  be 
hind  the  statue  of  Silence,  and  seeing  the  lofty  gaze  and 
kingly  step  of  his  rival  for  that  cigar  stump  begins  to  hope 
that  it  is  his,  and  that  the  prince  had  never  thought  of  it  at 
all. 

Suddenly  the  prince  stops.  He  has  dropped  his  handker 
chief.  He  tears  himself  from  the  contemplation  of  the  mys 
tical  obelisk,  and  stoops  to  recover  his  handkerchief.  He 
rises,  looks  furtively  about,  walks  on,  takes  a  turn  behind  a 
statue  with  an  enormous  nose  and  a  wreath  of  bay  about  its 
brow,  and  then  he  reappears.  He  looks  the  happiest  of  men  j 
for  lo  !  he  is  smoking  the  stump  of  a  cigar. 

Leaving  this  wrinkled  old  tobacco  merchant  and  her  cus 
tomer,  Murietta  sauntered  Tip  the  Via  Montenare  toward 
the  blue  tiger  on  the  lower  end  of  the  balustrade,  leading  up 
the  steps  to  the  top  of  the  Capitoline  Hill. 

About  half-way  up  this  walk  you  come  to  a  little  square  to 
the  right.  For  a  wonder,  this  square  has  neither  fountain, 
obelisk,  tower,  nor  figure  of  any  kind.  It  is  a  square  piazza 
paved  with  cobble-stone,  and  between  these  stones  in  places 
the  grass  sometimes  grows  up  as  long  as  your  hand. 

All  around,  at  least  on  three  sides  of  this  square,  you  see 
rows  of  tables.  Around  these  tables,  beneath  the  broad  um 
brella  that  is  always  kept  hoisted  against  either  rain  or  sun, 
you  often  see  whole  families  of  peasants.  They  are  talking 


142  The  One  Fair    Woman. 

earnestly  to  an  old  man  with  a  pen  in  his  hand,  and  a  paper 
spread  before  him. 

Sometimes  you  see  a  modest  servant  girl  come  up  the 
street  from  out  the  poor  quarter  of  Rome.  She  has  a  piece 
of  paper  and  an  envelope  in  her  hand,  and  you  see  her  hesi 
tate  at  the  edge  of  the  square,  look  all  around,  and  from  the 
mass  of  old  men  under  the  umbrellas,  she  picks  out  her 
scribe. 

This  is  the  only  place  of  this  kind  in  Rome.  In  Naples 
you  will  find  at  least  fifty.  This  shows  pretty  clearly  the 
difference  between  the  education  of  the  two  cities. 

Leave  the  street  by  which  you  enter,  the  only  way,  in 
fact,  by  which  you  can  enter,  and  cross  the  piazza,  and  enter 
the  narrow  bit  of  a  street  that  leads  up  there  boldly  against 
that  high  bluff  but  half  a  pistol-shot  distant. 

Upon  the  wall,  to  the  left  as  you  enter,  you  will  see  writ 
ten  "  Via  Tarpeia." 

This  is  the  real  Tarpeian  Rock.  There  is  another  place  in 
the  city  called  the  Tarpeian  Rock,  nearly  half  a  mile  from 
this.  They  charge  you  a  franc,  and  show  you  a  garden,  and 
tell  you  a  history  which  the  enterprising  Yankee  proprietor 
learned  from  an  American  school-book. 

Here  is  a  perfect  spider-web  of  clothes-lines  under  this 
gloomy  precipice  where  the  sun  never  shines,  and,  odd  as  it 
seems,  you  always  see  the  pretty,  black-eyed  women  hanging 
out  clothes  in  this  shade.  The  houses  are  low,  and  do  not 
reach  half-way  up  the  sandstone  rock,  which  is  topped  with 
pretty  gardens,  in  which  are  set  palaces  and  summer-houses 
and  beautiful  villas. 

At  the  base  of  this  rock,  besides  the  pretty  women  here, 
you  see  cats.  Here  they  sit,  humped  up,  their  tails  curled 
about  their  toes,  and  their  eyes  shut  as  if  asleep.  You 
attempt  to  take  hold  of  them,  and  they  somehow  are  all  the 
time  just  out  of  your  reach.  They  sit  on  the  mouldy  walls, 
the  mouldy  window-sills,  on  the  mossy  tiles ;  black  cats,  gray 


Real  Countesses.  143 

cats,  tortoise  and  cinnamon,  sitting  there  and  sitting  there 
and  sitting  there  forever  with  their  eyes  shut,  and  their 
tails  curled  about  their  toes. 

The  German  goes  down  to  France  and  back  again ;  the 
king  of  Italy  comes  to  Rome  and  goes ;  the  Pope  retreats  to 
his  prison  with  its  nine  thousand  rooms,  and  yet  these  cats 
sit  there  forever  in  the  shadow,  forever  in  the  damp  of  the 
Tarpeian  Rock,  with  their  eyes  shut  and  their  tails  curled 
around  their  toes — black  and  gray,  and  tortoise  and  cinna 
mon — cats  ;  nothing  but  cats  ! 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


THE    ROMAN    GHETTO. 


AKE  a  walk  from  the  Tarpe- 
ian  Rock  up  the  Tiber  to  the 
Bridge  of  St.  Angelo. 

The  first  thing  that  startles 
you   and  makes  you  turn  a- 
round  and  gaze  and  gaze  in 
wonder  is  the  old  Theatre  of 
Marcellus,  founded,  some  say, 
by  the  first  Csesar.     It  stands  there  in 
the  midst  of  misery  and  wreck   and 
desolation,  as  it  has  stood  for  more 
than  a  thoxisand  years. 

It  has  sunken  at  least  twenty  feet 
into  the  earth.  Or,  rather  the  earth 
has  accumulated  about  it  till  it  seems 
half  buried.  The  great  arched  en 
trances  are  filled  nearly  to  the  top.  In  some  of  them  you 
have  to  stoop  to  enter.  In  all  of  them  are  stowed  human 
beings.  Poor,  filthy,  wretched  ragpickers,  beggars,  thieves 
and  robbers. 

Palace  after  palace  has  been  built  from  the  stones  taken 
from  this  splendid  ruin  ;  and  yet  it  towers  above  and  over 
tops  everything  to  be  found  in  all  that  quarter  of  Rome.  On 
the  Tiber  side  of  it  a  modern  palace  has  grown  like  a  great 


The  Roman   Ghetto.  145 

toadstool,  and  all  around  the  base  and  jammed  up  against  it, 
and  growing  out  from  it  like  little  mushrooms  of  a  day,  are 
the  modern  houses  that  go  to  make  up  modern  Rome.  Rickety, 
wretched,  tumble-down  affairs  are  even  the  best  and  most 
aristocratic  of  Rome's  modern  structures.  You  cannot  hold 
a  reception  or  give  a  party  in  any  new  house  in  Rome  with 
out  permission  of  the  proprietor ;  you  cannot  dance  in  the 
flat  you  have  rented  without  the  permission  of  those  in  the 
other  flats ;  and  all  the  time  at  risk  of  having  the  whole 
structure  down  about  your  ears.  The  extremes  of  architec 
ture  have  met  in  Rome.  The  strongest  and  the  weakest 
structures  are  here. 

How  narrow  and  how  crooked  the  streets  are  as  you  feel 
your  uncertain  way  through  the  old  clothes  shops,  fish-stands, 
wine-stalls,  Jew  stores  on  every  hand. 

If  it  is  winter  and  the  wind  comes  down  from  the  Alps, 
you  will  meet  beggars,  fish-women,  old-clothes  men,  merchants 
of  many  kinds  and  conditions,  all  carrying  a  little  stove  in 
the  left  hand,  as  they  wind  and  push  and  elbow  their  ways 
through  the  crowded,  narrow,  dirty,  and  overhung  little 
streets. 

This  little  stove  is  called  a  scaldine.  It  is  only  a  sort  of 
crock  or  jar,  with  a  handle  over  it  like  the  handle  of  a  bas 
ket.  This  little  stove  is  filled  with  live  coals  and  keeps  the 
hands  warm  and  throws  out  quite  a  little  glow.  Sometimes 
one  of  these  stoves  is  kept  by  a  little  party  as  a  sort  of  joint- 
stock  establishment.  It  is  true  it  takes  only  about  a  penny's 
worth  of  coals  to  keep  up  the  fire  all  day  ;  yet  even  this  little 
sum  is  more  than  most  of  these  poor  wretches  can  spare.  Hence 
the  joint-stock  company.  You  will  see  the  little  stove  passed 
from  one  party  to  the  other.  The  women  put  it  under  their 
clothes  sometimes.  Sometimes  you  see  a  tall  and  stately  cav 
alier  throw  back  his  cloak,  lift  up  his  face,  and  turn  his  eyes 
in  a  most  tragic  majiner.  You  think  he  is  going  to  draw 
his  sword.  Not  so.  He  has  only  been  using  the  little  stove 


146  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

which  he  had  borrowed  for  a  few  moments  from  the  old 
apple-woman  on  the  corner,  and  is  now  about  to  take  it  out 
from  under  his  cloak  and  to  hand  it  back  to  her,  with  ten 
thousand  thanks  and  at  least  a  dozen  courtly  bows,  either  of 
which  would  insure  the  fortune  of  almost  any  actor  in  our 
cold  and  formal  world  in  the  West. 

At  the  door  of  every  little  shop  here  sits  a  Jew.  He  is 
generally  an  old  man  and  looks  just  like  the  pictures  of  that 
peculiar  people  painted  centuries  ago.  They  have  all  the 
Roman  peasant's  love  of  the  picturesque.  They  are  often 
dressed  in  a  half  savage,  half  Oriental  style,  and  have  their 
shops  hung  in  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow.  Even  the  little 
scaldine,  or  stove,  which  he  holds  between  his  legs  and  sits 
leaning  over,  is  painted  in  yellow  and  red  and  green,  and  is 
glorious  with  fiery  dragons  blowing  flames  through  their 
nostrils  and  rampant-like  steeds  plunging  in  battle. 

In  the  thick  of  all  this  misery  you  will  come  upon  an  old 
palace  that  has  partly  fallen  in  and  is  quite  going,  gone  to 
decay.  In  that  palace,  the  first  you  encounter  after  leaving 
the  theatre,  was  enacted  the  first  chapters  of  the  awful  tragedy 
of  Cenci,  for  there  it  was  that  the  old  man  was  murdered. 

Then  pretty  soon,  as  you  are  twisted  and  turned  and  cork 
screwed  through  these  narrow  streets,  with  a  turn  and  a  curve 
and  a  cross  at  every  ten  steps,  you  come  suddenly  on  to  some 
mighty  marble  columns  lifting  up  and  towering  quite  above 
the  buildings  around  them.  There  is  also  the  porch  or  front 
of  something  that  looks  as  if  it  might  have  been  a  Greek 
temple.  That  is  the  old  market.  This  spot,  this  market,  was 
once  a  rival  in  power,  and  as  a  centre  of  Rome,  to  the  Forum, 
which  lies  over  yonder,  half  a  mile  away  and  twenty -five  feet 
under  the  earth. 

Turn  a  little  closer  to  the  river,  and  you  come  to  the  little 
palace  of  the  Spada.  Pass  into  this  miserable  place,  where 
perhaps  you  will  find  only  beggars  outside,  an  old  woman  at 
the  door,  and  half  a  dozen  travellers,  with  eye-glasses  and  red- 


The  Roman   Ghetto.  147 

covered  books,  and,  standing  with  his  back  to  the  Tiber, 
standing  with  tattered  banners  and  broken  arms,  and  rusted 
mail  on  the  walls  around  him,  you  see  the  colossal  statue  of 
Pompey  the  Great,  holding"  in  his  hand  the  universal  world. 

The  rival  and  the  relative  of  Caesar,  slain  you  may  say  by 
Caesar,  had  this  statue  to  his  memory  made  by  Caesar,  and 
then  stood  by  in  marble  and  saw  his  downfall  and  death,  and 
received  his  blood  into  his  marble  veins  when  he  died. 

There  it  is,  the  left  leg  stained  to  the  thigh,  even  to  this 
day,  with  the  blood  of  the  ambitious  Caesar. 

You  will  not  like  this  ugly  statue  of  Pompey  the  Great. 
There  is  not  a  single  mark  of  greatness  either  in  the  face  or 
manner  as  he  is  represented  here.  The  mouth  is  weak  as 
that  of  a  modern  Chinaman.  The  rusty  streaks  in  the  mar 
ble,  which  the  ingenious  Italian  has  seen  fit  to  call  the  blood 
of  Caesar,  gives  it  a  dirty  and  suspicious  appearance,  and  you 
pronounce  it  the  biggest  imposition  you  have  yet  seen.  And 
that  is  saying  a  great  deal. 

Make  another  diversion — in  fact,  a  very  sharp  one,  and 
directly  up  from  the  river  toward  new  Rome — and  you  como 
upon  the  skeleton  of  a  mighty  round  structure,  which  the 
people  there  very  properly  call  the  Rotunda.  You  pass 
around  to  the  front,  and  you  stand  under  the  porch  of  the 
most  enduring  temple  that  has  been  handed  down  to  us  from 
the  heathen. 

These  mighty  granite  columns  that  support  the  Greek  porch 
are  too  heavy  for  any  modern  machinery  to  move.  They  are 
too  large  for  any  modern  designs  of  architecture,  and,  being 
monoliths,  they,  unlike  the  stones  of  the  Coliseum,  will  prob 
ably  remain  there  just  as  they  are  for  cycles  to  come. 

You  wish  to  enter  the  Pantheon,  to  see  the  tomb  of 
Raphael.  Good.  You  push  the  iron  gate  between  the  great 
columns.  It  creaks,  a  priest  comes  out  (as  they  always  do 
come  out  in  every  place  you  go  into  in  Rome),  and  he  stands 
before  you.  Hand  him  a  frank.  You  cannot  better  intro- 


148  The   One  Fair    Woman. 

duce  yourself.  It  does  not  matter  much  whether  you  can 
talk  a  word  of  Italian  or  not.  They  all  know  just  what  you 
want ;  and  you  can  have  it,  if  you  pay  for  it,  just  as  well 
without  a  speech  as  with  it.  In  Italy  they  are  willing  to  do 
all  the  talking  themselves.  They  are  a  race  of  women  there. 
In  Italy  you  are  not  expected  to  talk,  but  to  pay. 

All  around  the  round,  wigwam-shaped  Pantheon  you  see 
only  shrines  and  tombs.  Priests  are  moving  about  in  their 
black  gowns  and  sombre  and  suspicious-looking  cowls ;  can 
dles  are  burning  before  the  altars  ;  mass  is  being  said  for  the 
dead. 

The  mighty  temple  which  the  heathen  reared  for  the  wor 
ship  of  all  the  gods  is  now  seized  upon  by  the  Christian,  and 
devoted  not  only  to  the  worship  of  the  one  God,  but  to  the 
use  of  one  branch  of  one  religion — yea,  to  the  use  of  one 
creed  of  one  church. 

It  is  cold  and  damp  and  dismal  here.  You  feel  the  chill 
and  the  fevers  in  your  bones.  It  is  dangerous  even  to  sit 
down  here  in  this  vault.  The  priests  know  this,  and  they 
keep  constantly  on  their  feet  when  not  on  their  knees. 

The  Pantheon,  too,  has  sunk  down  into  the  earth  ;  or, 
rather,  the  earth  has  grown  up  around  the  Pantheon.  Ages 
have  washed  and  worn  the  Alps  away  ;  the  Tiber  has  borne 
the  debris  to  the  streets  of  Rome  ;  and  now  the  "  Temple  to 
all  the  Gods,"  which  was  once  reached  by  ascending  long  and 
lofty  marble  steps,  is  reached  by  descending  through  the 
mud. 

If  yoxi  come  here  when  the  Tiber  is  full,  you  will  come  in 
a  boat.  Many  times  during  the  year  all  this  portion  of  the 
city  of  Rome  is  under  water,  and  you  have  a  sort  of  Venice 
without  the  gondola. 

At  such  times  the  priests  enter  the  Pantheon  in  boats. 
You  see  them  pass  the  great  iron  gates,  row  through  the  open 
iron  doors  which  have  been  put  up  in  place  of  the  copper 
ones  torn  away  and  plundered  to  ornament  St.  Peter's,  and 


The  Roman   Ghetto.  149 

then  go  all  around  the  altars  and  say  their  prayers  and  light 
their  candles  and  count  their  beads,  while  the  awful  Pantheon 
stands  up  to  its  knees  in  the  dark  and  dirty  waters  of  the 
Tiber. 

These  priests  paddle  their  own  boats  at  such,  times.  They 
are  silent  men.  Their  cowls  are  about  their  faces  ;  ropes  are 
around  their  waists.  They  look  like  birds  of  evil  omen,  an 
gels  of  the  devil,  Charon  on  his  solemn  voyage  of  the  Styx. 

Go  back  to  the  Ghetto.  You  should  see  this  part  of  the 
city  some  time  when  the  Tiber  is  booming  and  boiling  through 
it.  The  Jew  sits  no  more  at  the  door  of  his  shop,  warming 
his  hands  over  his  many-colored  scaldine.  The  houses  are 
in  the  water  up  to  the  waist,  and  the  Israelite  is  pushed  some 
times  even  on  to  the  tiles,  with  all  his  fortune  and  family 
around  him  there.  Up  in  a  day  and  down  in  a  day.  To 
morrow  the  Jew  will  be  down  at  the  door,  shovelling  away  the 
sands  of  the  Tiber,  hanging  his  coats  of  many  colors  in  all  the 
hues  and  airy  elegance  of  the  rainbow  about  his  door  and  win 
dows;  and  the  day  after  you  will  see  him  sitting  there  at  his 
door,  warming  his  hands,  waiting  for  customers. 

Then  the  people  fill  the  streets,  and  steal  and  starve  and 
suffer  as  before.  But  oh  !  the  fevers  now  —  the  fevers,  the 
sickness,  and  the  sorrows  of  this  miserable  people  of  the 
Ghetto  ! 

You  are  in  the  old  Jew  Quarter.  This  is  the  place  where 
the  Jews  were  fastened  up  and  which  they  could  not  leave  in 
the  night  for  more  than  a  thousand  years.  It  looks  like 
death  in  rags.  It  smells  of  the  plague.  Black-eyed  women 
are  looking  at  you.  Black-hearted  men  are  watching  you. 
Bright-eyed  children  put  out  their  pretty  brown  hands,  lift 
up  their  wonderful  eyes,  half  hidden  by  the  clouds  of  curly 
hair,  and  you  stop  and  empty  every  penny  into  their  dimpled, 
dirty,  little  hands. 

Every  now  and  then  you  come  to  a  great  piazza  —  a  great 
piazza  for  this  terribly-crowded  quarter — and  you  see  a  foun- 


150  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

tain  in  the  centre,  and  women,  bareheaded  and  barefooted, 
coming  and  going  in  hundreds,  with  their  brown  pitchers 
held  up  high  in  the  upturned  hand  or  borne  on  the  head  or 
shoulder. 

At  last  you  emerge  from  this  nightmare  of  misery,  and, 
looking  down  the  street  to  the  Tiber,  you  see  across  a  high- 
arching  bridge  a  battlement  that  mocks  anything  that  all  the 
modern  men  have  built. 

This  is  only  an  old  tomb.  It  is  now  called  the  Castle  ot 
Saint  Angelo ;  and  in  this  gloomy  tomb,  castle,  prison,  for 
tress,  arsenal,  church,  barracks,  and  hospital,  were  enacted  the 
last  chapters  of  the  sad  story  of  the  Cenci. 

You  may  mount  this  mighty  edifice,  and  you  will  find  that 
the  luige  angel  that  tops  the  castle  there,  in  the  act  of  sheath 
ing  his  sword,  and  looks  no  larger  than  an  ordinary  man,  is 
more  than  Goliath  in  height. 

Walk  across  this  bridge  with  reverence  and  respect.  It 
has  blood  upon  it.  There  are  "  the  breezy  statues  of  Ber 
nini,"  of  which  Byron  spoke  in  "  Childe  Harold."  They 
range  either  side  the  bridge  and  represent  the  Crucifixion. 

Stop  here  on  the  keystone  of  the  bridge.  Look  at  that 
great  marble  pedestal  of  the  middle  statue  to  the  right.-  A 
cannon-ball  sent  by  the  French  to  Garibaldi  struck  there  and 
shivered  it  like  glass,  as  you  see.  Look  up  and  down,  the 
street  behind  you,  and  you  will  see  here  and  there  a  hole  in 
the  wall,  a  cornice  cut  off,  or  a  new  stone  set  in  to  fill  a 
place  where  a  cannon-ball  went  through. 

You  look  at  the  Tiber.  You  try  to  get  at  its  secrets. 
You  look  at  it  in  vain.  You  cannot  see  an  inch  into  its 
bosom.  It  is  deep  and  dumb  and  silent.  It  is  swift  as  a 
mountain  torrent,  yet  it  never  makes  a  ripple,  never  once  a 
murmrur. 

There  was  a  storm  last  night,  and  the  old  stream  is  full 
and  foamy  and  angry  ;  but  it  will  not  say  one  word.  It  is 
thick  and  yellow  with  sand.  If  you  reach  and  take  a  dozen 


The  Roman   Ghetto.  151 

drops  in  the  Land,  you  cannot  see  your  palm.  It  is  darker, 
thicker  than  the  Missouri  after  a  flood. 

You  do  not  see  a  single  steamer  on  the  storied  old  river, 
that  floated  its  thousand  barges.  You  do  not  see  a  single 

~  O 

boat.  There  is  a  log  of  driftwood  coming  down.  A  low, 
black  skiff,  with  a  long-haired  fisherman,  shoots  out  from 
under  a  ruin,  drives  a  pike  into  the  timber,  and  tows  it 
away  under  his  arch,  as  a  wolf  would  drag  a  carcass  to  his 
cave  ;  but  that  is  all  the  craft  you  see  afloat. 

You  look  up  and  down  the  ugly  river,  winding  between  its 
walls  of  sand  and  old  battlements  and  bridges  and  ruins,  that 
jut  into  the  river,  and  you  wonder  where  it  was  that  Hora- 
tius  kopt  the  bridge.  You  look  into  the  ugly  river,  as  it 
foams  and  froths  and  shows  its  teeth,  and  ask  it  to  tell  you 
where  it  was  that  the  virgins  leapt  into  its  waters ;  but  it 
will  not  answer.  It  keeps  its  awful  secrets,  and  you  pass  on, 
full  of  thought  and  sobered  by  the  scene. 

You  turn  sharply  to  the  left  and  leave  the  mighty  castle, 
with  its  great  bridge  through  the  air,  leading  half  a  mile  to 
the  Vatican,  for  the  convenience  and  safety  of  the  Pope,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  you  stand  before  the  vestibule  of  St.  Peter's. 

A  great  square  is  here,  that  may  hold  a  hundred  thousand 
people.  Two  fountains  play  on  either  hand  as  you  walk 
across  this  open  ground  toward  the  church,  and  they  throw 
their  thousand  jets  almost  half  as  high  as  the  one  lone 
obelisk  standing  in  the  centre. 

You  do  not  see  the  hundreds  of  mighty  pillars  that  arch 
in  a  crescent  right  and  left,  and  are  mounted  by  a  hundred  of 
the  best,  or,  at  least,  the  most  imposing  figures  of  Michael 
Angelo ;  you  do  not  see  the  rainbows,  right  and  lef^  that 
are  always  bending  about  these  fountains,  for  your  eyes  are 
fixed  on  the  mighty  edifice  that  lifts  before  you. 

You  approach  the  great  steps  that  stretch  away  down  as  if 
to  invite  you  up.  There  are  perhaps  a  hundred  carriages 
coming  and  going  and  crossing  the  great  piazza  or  waiting  at 


152 


The  One  Fair  Woman. 


the  bottom  of  the  great  circular  steps ;  but  all  is  on  such  a 
massive  scale,  everything  is  so  spacious  and  stupendous,  that 
the  place  positively  looks  lonesome  and  deserted  as  you  turn 
and  look  back  at  the  obelisk  and  the  fountains  and  the  peo 
ple  and  the  carriages  in  the  great  square,  while  going  up  the 
great  granite  steps  to  the  leather  doors  of  Michael  Angelo's 
Pantheon  hung  in  the  air. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


THE  PINK  LADY  IN  ST.  PETER'S. 


UEIETTA   did   not   enter  St. 
Peter's   the   first   day,    as    do 
most  travellers.     He  stood  be 
fore  it.     Nor  did  he  enter  the 
second  day,  nor  the  third,  nor 
the  fourth.      No,  not  for  many 
days.     This  magnificent  temple 
had  been  to  him  a  sort  of  Mec 
ca.     He  hovered  about  it  now ; 
he    feared  almost    to   enter  it. 
He  looked  at  it  from  the  Cam- 
He  admired  its  symmetry  and 
airy  proportions  from  the  mountains  of 
Tivoli  twenty  miles  away.     He  looked 
down  on   the  great  dome  from  Monte 
Mario,    and    felt   for   a  long  time  con 
tent  to  remain  without. 

At  last  he  entered — and  was  disappointed.  It  seemed  but 
a  small  affair  after  all.  He  had  expected  too  much. 

The  walls  and  columns  were  hung  in  red,  for  it  was  a  festal 
day,  and  the  effect  was  anything  but  grand.  The  place  was 
black  with  people  moving  through  and  through,  and  there 
was  a  sound  of  voices  as  if  it  were  a  second  Babel.  He 
walked  to  the  farther  end.  It  was  like  walking  to  church 
from  your  country  seat.  The  place  began  to  look  more  as 


pagna. 


154  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

he  had  expected  to  find  it.  He  walked  back  towards  the 
great  leather  apron. 

Murietta  was  a  devout  Christian,  and  had  dipped  his  fin 
gers  in  the  bowl  of  holy  water,  which  is  supported  by  reclin 
ing  cherubs  against  the  pillars  to  the  right  and  left  as  you 
enter.  These  cherubs  at  first  sight  seemed  to  be  no  bigger 
than  your  hand.  Now,  as  he  looked  at  them  again,  they  be 
gan  to  grow  and  expand,  and  expand  and  grow,  till  they 
grew  larger  than  a  grown  man. 

He  walked  back  and  stood  beneath  the  dome. 

The  people  went  and  came,  poured  past,  talked  loud,  knelt 
and  prayed  in  silence,  stood  up  and  prayed  aloud,  or  admired, 
or  condemned,  or  disparaged.  There  were  at  least  a  hundred 
voices  singing  to  the  left,  and  many  deep-throated  instruments 
filled  the  place  with  melody. 

"  Do  you  see  the  angel  that  holds  the  pen  ?"  said  one  man 
with  an  eye-glass  and  long  whiskers  and  black  clothes,  and  a 
red-covered  guide-book  in  his  hand. 

Another  man — a  tall,  lean,  hungry-looking  man,  with  a 
mournful  face  and  a  threadbare  coat,  with  an  umbrella  under 
his  arm — took  off  his  spectacles,  rubbed  them,  looked  up, 
and  then  from  under  his  spectacles  said,  "  Do  you  see  that 
pen  in  the  hand  of  the  angel  away  up  yonder  at  the  base  of 
the  dome. 

"  Yes,"  said  a  tall,  bony  woman  in  gold-rimmed  glasses. 

The  spectacles  came  down ;  the  long  neck  relaxed ;  the 
long,  lean  figure  that  had  reached  and  tiptoed  and  towered 
up  above  the  crowd,  came  down,  an  umbrella  went  up, 
jammed  tight  up  under  the  arm  like  an  arrow  in  rest,  and 
the  bow  bent  as  if  it  was  about  to  shoot. 

"  Well,  that  pen  looks  just  precisely  the  size  of  an  ordi 
nary  goose-quill,  in  an  ordinary  hand,  does  it  not?" 

"Yes,  doctor,  yes,"  answered  the  tall,  thin  Special  Corre 
spondent,  stretching  her  long  neck  xip  and  above  the  mass  of 
people. 


The  Pink  Lady  in  St.  Peter  s.        155 

"  Well,"  answered  the  missionary  of  Naples,  as  he  shot  his 
arrow  down  into  the  floor  and  sprang  up  like  a  bow  let  loose, 
"  well,  that  pen  is  jnst  fifteen  feet  long,  fifteen  feet  long  ! 
Just  think  of  it  !  fifteen  feet  long  !  "  and  at  every  emphatic 
"  fifteen  "  he  shot  his  catapult  against  the  floor  till  it  trembled 
with  the  concussion. 

"  Such,  madam,  is  St.  Peter's  !  You  see  a  column  here 
that  does  not  look  so  big  after  all.  Good.  Look  at  the  man 
beside  it :  he  does  not  stand  knee-high  to  the  statue  there 
that  only  looks  to  be  life-size. — Ah,  my  friend !  delighted  to 
see  you." 

The  missionary  had  caught  sight  of  Murietta,  who  had 
been  thrown  by  the  tide  of  the  people  at  his  elbow. 

"Ah,  so  delighted  to  see  you  !  "  The  umbrella  went  up, 
and  the  tombstone  face  with  its  weeping  willows  came  down, 
but  not  so  far  down  as  of  old.  And  then  the  face  did  not 
look  so  mournful  as  it  did  before.  The  missionary  had  evi 
dently  been  having  some  good  fortune.  The  man  had  been 
dining ;  the  new  moon  was  filling  up ;  the  bow  was  a  little 
stiff;  even  the  umbrella  did  not  seem  so  long  and  lean  as  be 
fore  ;  it  seemed  to  have  got  some  meat  on  its  ribs  as  well  as 
the  missionary. 

If  you  want  a  man  to  bow  right  well,  leave  him  a  little 
hungry ;  don't  let  him  be  too  fat ;  that  will  make  him  stiff. 
The  politest  man  in  the  world,  in  the  matter  of  bows  at  least, 
is  a  man  who  wants  a  dinner.  Perhaps  that  is  why  certain 
Italian  and  French  adventurers  are  so  very  civil. 

"  Yes,"  continued  the  tombstone,  as  it  leaned  on  the  um 
brella  like  a  man  who  feels  that  he  is  at  last  of  some  import 
ance,  "  yes,  I  have  been  persuaded  to  leave  for  a  season  the 
onerous  duties  of  my  post,  and  journey  through  Southern 
Italy  for  my  health.  And "  (here  he  bowed  profoundly  to 
the  "  Special,")  "  I  am  now  in  the  hands  of  this  gifted  lady 
and  her  good  friends  from  Boston ;  and  I  gather  bones." 

"  Gather  bones  !  "  scowled  Murietta. 


156  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  Yes,  yes;  bones  and  other  antiquities  ;  but  bones  is  my 
specialty.  You  see,  at  Naples  I  had  got  together  several  very 
fine  specimens,  among  which  I  may  mention  a  thigh-bone  of 
Saint  Thomas,  the  left  radius  of  the  elder  Pliny,  the  os  frontis 
of  Saint  Helena,  once  Empress  of  Constantinople ;  also  a 
very  well-preserved  cast  of  a  baby  found  in  the  streets  of 
Pompeii.  We  hope  to  get  among  the  Capuchins  and  carry  off 
one  of  their  best  specimens  of  dried  monks.  As  for  the  Cata 
combs,  1  shall  be  perfectly  at  home  there,  and  trust  me  to 
get  hold  of  a  few  bones  of  Saint  Cecilia." 

The  umbrella  shot  down  ;  the  tombstone  shot  up  ;  and  the 
missionary  again  addressed  himself  to  the  Special  Correspon 
dent. 

The  music  rose  and  rolled  and  sounded  through  the  vast 
edifice,  and  then  came  softly  back  and  died  away  as  other 
notes  followed,  as  wave  follows  wave  upon  the  beach.  The 
priests  were  passing  here  and  there  with  lighted  candles.  A 
thousand  people  moved  here  and  there  with  red  books  held 
up  before  them,  and  they  read  aloud  as  they  walked,  and 
looked  up  and  about,  and  wondered  and  uttered  exclamations 
as  they  went. 

There  were  figures,  men  and  women,  who  ran  against  each 
other,  and  talked  in  loud,  harsh  tones  :  they  held  those  red- 
covered  books  up  before  them  as  if  they  had  been  a  sort  of 
lamp  to  their  feet. 

Murietta  wearied  of  this.  To  him  it  was  revolting.  Here 
were  all  things  that  ought  to  inspire  devotion — that  did  in 
spire  devotion  in  the  Latin.  In  the  Saxon  it  seemed  to  ex 
cite  something  half  akin  to  profanity. 

"  Do  you  see  those  mighty  twisted  columns  of  bronze  that 
support  the  canopy  above  the  sacred  relics,  and  the  eternal 
lamps  that  lead  down  to  the  vault?"  said  one.  "Well, 
those  columns  are  made  of  the  melted  doors  of  the  Pan 
theon." 

"Ah  yes,"  answered  another,  reading  aloud  from  the  guido 


The  Pink  Lady  in  St.  Peter  s.        157 

book  as  he  bustled  lip  against  a  fat  man  who  was  also  reading 
aloud  ;  "ah  yes,  and  this  floor,  the  very  floor  of  St.  Peter's, 
was  plundered  from  the  Baths  of  Caracalla." 

Murietta  had  turned  to  go  away  and  find  the  quiet  of  the 
great  piazza.  He  had  been  thinking  again  of  his  ideal. 
Even  now,  as  he  walked  towards  the  great  leathern  doors 
that  kept  constantly  thundering  their  protest  against  the  rude 
crowd  that  pushed  and  rushed,  and  went  and  came,  he  shook 
his  hair  as  if  to  shake  off  this  confusion  and  sacrilegous  tu 
mult.  And  then  he  sighed,  and  said,  "  I  scattered  roses  in 
her  path  as  she  rode  that  morning  up  the  fiery  mountain. 
But  then  in  the  dusk  by  the  sea  she  turned  her  face  away, 
and  "she  did  not  answer  me." 

He  moved  on  toward  the  door,  with  his  head  held  down, 
and  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

There  were  a  hundred  people — peasants,  princes,  merchants, 
pirates,  brigands,  priests,  all  kinds  and  all  classes — kneeling 
before  and  praying  to  the  statue  of  St.  Peter. 

The  missionary  had  got  the  point  of  his  umbrella  in  be 
tween  the  toes  of  a  cherub  weeping  at  a  tomb,  and  was  trying 
to  split  them  off  as  a  relic  of  St.  Peter's.  The  passing 
stranger  smiled  at  his  efforts ;  but  one  good  Samaritan  from 
his  own  country  came  slily  up  to  him,  slipped  a  hammer  into 
his  hand,  and  then  as  the  organ  pealed  its  deepest  surge,  he 
struck  the  little  cherub  on  its  marble  toes  with  all  his  might, 
and  the  vandalism  was  accomplished. 

Murietta  passed  on  towards  the  door  disgusted.  There 
was  a  row  of  people  standing  before  the  figure  of  St  Peter : 
they  were  waiting  their  turn  to  kiss  his  sacred  toe.  A  de 
votee  woxihl  step  up  to  the  toe,  which  is — or  was  before  it  was 
so  much  worn  away  by  pious  lips — set  out  a  little  way  over 
the  pedestal,  and  leaning,  would  wipe  or  hastily  brush  the  toe 
with  his  handkerchief,  and  then  touching  the  toe  with  his 
lips,  would  bend  the  head  a  little  more  and  touch  the  foot 
with  his  forehead ;  then  he  would  wipe  the  toe  as  he  passed 


158  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

on,  for  the  man  or  woman,  the  prince  or  peasant,  who  was 
waiting  his  turn  behind  him. 

There  were  mothers  with  their  little  children.  They  had 
in  some  cases  borne  these  children  on  their  backs,  hundreds 
of  miles  from  out  the  mountains  all  the  way  to  Rome  on 
foot,  only  to  touch  their  little  lips  to  this  sacred  toe  of  St. 
Peter,  and  thus  secure  and  insure  an  entrance  into  heaven. 
Sometimes  a  devotee  would  tiptoe  up,  reach  over,  and  kiss 
the  other  foot ;  but  as  a  rule  they  were  content  to  touch  the 
one  which  stood  reached  out  and  on  a  level  with  the  lips. 

Murietta  turned  to  look  at  this  as  he  passed.  To  him  it 
had  a  meaning  and  a  beauty.  '  Twas  Faith,  and  Hope,  and 
Charity.  A  prince  of  the  north  was  kneeling  now,  and  with 
him  was  a  bishop  from  South  America,  and  and  an  ex-king. 
They  were  gorgeously  dressed,  and  were  very  pious  and  very 
penitent.  As  they  approached  to  kiss  the  sacred  toe,  the 
crowd  gave  way,  the  peasants  stepped  back  and  left  an  open 
space,  and  the  place  free  to  the  pious  pilgrims  who  had  come 
far  to  invoke  the  pity  of  St.  Peter. 

But  there  was  one  who  did  not  give  way.  She  stood 
close  up  by  the  statue.  She  lifted  up  her  face  and  looked, 
with  her  gold  spectacles,  right  into  the  face  of  St.  Peter. 
Then,  dipping  into  her  pocket,  she  fumbled  among  guide 
books,  note-books,  maps,  relics,  and  antiquities,  and  brought 
forth  a  little  carpenter's  rule,  and  calmly  proceeded  to 
measure  the  foot  of  St.  Peter,  as  if  to  calculate  how  much  of 
it  had  been  kissed  away. 

Perhaps  the  ex-king  thoiight  this  singular  instrument  in 
the  hands  of  this  singular  woman  was  a  kind  of  cross,  or 
sacred  symbol  of  worship.  At  all  events,  he  bowed  his  head 
and  reached  his  lips  as  the  woman  laid  her  rule  along  the 
foot  and  measured  to  the  toe. 

The  lips  of  the  ex-king  touched  and  kissed  the  brass  end 
of  the  carpenter's  rule  held  in  the  hand  of  the  ex-schoolmis 
tress  of  Connecticut.  Extremes  meet.  The  world  is  round. 


The  Pink  Lady  in  St.  Peter  s.        159 

Murietta  had  almost  reached  the  door  when  the  great 
leathern  apron  fluttered  and  thundered  louder  than  before. 

He  started  back  and  stood  leaning,  almost  falling,  against 
the  feet  of  the  cherub  that  supports  the  bowl  of  holy  water. 

The  beautiful  Countess  Edna,  the  lady  in  pink,  had 
entered,  and  was  standing  there,  with  her  great  brown  eyes 
wide  open,  and  wandering  in  a  sort  of  dreamy  wonder  about 
her. 

How  beautiful  she  was  !  ,  Ah,  how  more  than  beautiful ! 
The  rose  and  sea-shell  color  of  her  face  and  neck,  the  soft  baby 
complexion,  the  sweet  surprise  on  her  face,  the  old  expres 
sion  of  inquiry  and  longing,  the  lips  pushed  out  and  pouting 
full  and  as  longing  for  love,  the  mouth  half  opened  as  if 
to  ask  you  the  way  into  some  great  brave  heart  where  she 
could  enter  in  and  sit  down  and  rest,  as  in  some  sacred 
temple. 

She  stood  there  like  a  fluttered  bird.  Her  maid  was  near 
her.  A  man  stood  behind  her.  Murietta  did  not  move. 
He  did  not  dare  to  move  for  fear  of  disturbing  the  vision 
before  him.  He  had  thirsted  for  this  sight  all  his  life.  It 
had  been  to  him  an  ideal  that  he  had  despaired  to  see.  It 
had  never  taken  any  real  shape  in  his  mind.  Unlike  Annette, 
he  could  never  have  painted  this  woman  before  he  saw  her. 
But  now  that  he  saw  her  standing  thus,  in  this  new  light,  he 
knew  that  he  had  seen  her  away  down  deep  in  the  well  of  his 
soul,  even  from  his  cradle  up. 

She  stood  still  as  in  a  dream.  Her  face  now  began  to  grow 
more  radiant  as  the  organ  rose  and  rolled  and  died  away  and 
swelled  again,  and  a  half  smile  played  over  the  beautiful  baby 
face.  The  lips  whispered  as  if  to  things  unseen.  Her  soul 
was  like  an  opening  rose. 

Then  the  organ  pealed  again,  and  the  woman  moved.  She 
stepped,  she  turned,  she  whirled.  Her  face  was  beaming,  and 
her  eyes  were  full  of  a  new  and  uncommon  lustre. 

She   moved  as  in   a  dance.     Her  pink   robes  trailed  and 


160  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

swept  the  glossy  marble  ;  her  pink  feet  shot  in  and  out  and 
kept  time  to  the  music ;  and  her  pretty  hands  swayed  as  she 
spun,  and  whirled,  and  glided  around  and  around  ;  and  the 
diamonds  shone  on  her  fingers  as  the  little  hands  waved  in  the 
dreamy  movement  of  the  waltz. 

Her  faithful  maid  followed  her  in  her  giddy  dance,  and  as 
she  stopped,  radiant,  smiling,  pushing  out  her  pretty  mouth, 
half  opening  her  lips  as  if  to  take  her  breath,  she  lifted  her 
black  lace  mantle  about  her,  pushed  back  the  golden  fold 
of  hair  that  had  fallen  about  her  face,  but  did  not  say  one 
word. 

People  were  all  awonder.  Priests  were  coming  forward  by 
the  dozen.  All  this  had  been  done  in  a  moment,  but  it  was 
not  a  thing  to  be  tolerated  or  passed  over. 

A  priest  stood  before  her.     She  handed  him  some  money. 

"  For  your  poor,  father." 

The  priest  bowed  himself  before  the  lady  and  melted  away 
into  the  crowd. 

Then  came  another,  a  sterner  and  an  older  priest.  She 
looked  at  him  and  smiled.  He  was  melted  away  even  without 
a  bow.  There  was  a  little  consultation  among  the  priests  as 
they  stood  behind  the  massive  column  under  the  monument 
of  the  Queen  of  Sweden. 

Then  three  priests,  headed  by  one  of  dignity  and  authority, 
came  to  the  beautiful  Countess  Edna  as  she  wralked  on  slowly 
toward  the  statue  of  St.  Peter. 

The  priests  moved  on  in  a  circuit  and  came  up  before 
her. 

"  I  have  brought  you  some  money,"  said  this  wonderful 
woman,  in  a  voice  low  and  soft  and  sweet  as  the  far-off 
sound  of  the  silver  trumpets  that  are  heard  no  more  from 
the  mighty  dome  above  the  sacred  statue  which  she  was 
approaching. 

She  stretched  out  her  hand,  smiled,  and  the  angry  priests 
were  angry  no  longer,  but  they  too  melted  away,  and  were  no 
more  seen. 


The  Pink  Lady  in  St.  Peter  s.        161 

Murietta  had  followed  her  without  knowing  it.  He  fol 
lowed  her  as  he  would  have  followed  any  other  most  beauti 
ful  thing  in  all  the  world.  If  it  had  been  possible  for 
that  most  beautiful  thing  to  come  in  any  other  form  than 
that  of  woman,  he  would  have  followed  that  also  just  the 
•same.  He  felt  that  the  beautiful  was  to  him  a  sort  of  special 
property  to  look  upon.  He  knew  how  very,  very  few  there 
are  in  the  world  who  know  what  beauty  is.  He  knew  per 
fectly  well  how  rare  was  perfect  beauty.  He  knew  the  rare 
ness  of  this  occasion,  and  knew  it  would  never  happen  again 
in  the  world  to  him.  Yet  he  did  not  know  he  followed  her. 
If  he  had  asked  himself  where  he  was  standing,  and  had  not 
taken  heed  to  look  about  him,  he  would  have  answered  that 
he  was  resting  still  against  the  chubby  little  cherub  that 
puffed  its  fat  cheeks  above  the  bowl  of  holy  water. 

The  lady  stopped  before  the  image  of  St.  Peter;  but  it  was 
evident  that  her  feelings,  as  she  contemplated  it,  were  not 
those  of  devotion.  There  was  a  touch  of  pity,  a  touch  of 
tenderness  in  her  face  as  she  saw  the  poor,  ragged,  ignorant 
wretches  from  the  fields  bow  before  this  image,  and  rise  and 
kiss  the  cold  and  unanswering  metal. 

A  rough  hand  touched  her  arm.  She  started  as  if  she  had 
been  stung  by  a  snake,  and  uttered  a  cry  of  pain. 

Murietta  sprang  forward  and  almost  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"  I  am  a  man,"  thundered  a  voice  that  came  from  out  the 
crowd  close  by,  "I  am  a  man  who  carries  his  heart  in  his 
hand."  The  great  chin  thrust  itself  in  between  the  lady  and 
Murietta,  just  as  she  was  reaching  her  hand  in  grateful 
recognition. 

"I  am  a  man,  sir,"  continued  the  admiral,  "who  carries 
his  heart  in  his  hand.  You  know  me.  You  know  me  to  be 
a  blunt  but  honest  sailor ;  and  I  tell  you  candidly,  madam, 
that  this  levity  in  this  holy  temple  will  not  do." 

"  My  dear,  it  will  not  do,"  echoed  the  count,  who  came  in 
behind  the  admiral. 


1 62  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

The  lady  was  overcome  only  for  a  moment  with  embar 
rassment. 

Then  she  laughed  like  an  Apennine  cascade. 

"  What !  this  holy  temple !  This  great,  hideous,  hollow 
piece  of  architecture,  that  is  only  fit  to  be  seen  ten  miles 
away  on  the  Campagna.  This  sacred  temple,  built  of  other 
temples  plundered  for  the  purpose — this  temple,  with  every 
atone  wet  with  blood  and  tears  wrung  from  the  poor — from 
Christ's  poor ! " 

The  admiral  had  taken  a  book  from  his  pocket  and  was 
writing  as  fast  as  he  could. 

"  What  are  you  doing  there  ?  " 

"I  am  writing  down  all  this,  madam;  all  that  you  have 
done  and  said  against  the  holy  religion." 

"Holy  religion!  Holy,  indeed,  it  must  be,  that  can  har 
bor  such  monsters  as  you  !  " 

She  tried  to  pass  as  she  spoke.  The  admiral  caught  her  by 
the  arm  and  wrenched  it,  as  he  set  his  teeth  with  rage. 

The  lady  screamed  with  fright  and  pain.  The  count  timidly 
remonstrated,  and  the  ruffian  swore  as  if  he  had  been  a 
pirate. 

A  crowd  was  gathering,  and  priests  came  forward.  The 
admiral  knew  too  much  to  create  a  scene  there,  and  fell  back. 

((  Come  with  me,  Murietta,"  cried  the  lady. 

Murietta  hesitated. 

"  I  am  a  man,  Murietta,  who  carries  his  heart  in  his  hand. 
How  do  you  do  ?  How  do  you  do  ?  I  am  your  friend,  believe 
me.  I  amy  our  friend.  A  rough  but  honest  sailor." 

The  count,  with  his  old  politeness,  bowed  and  smiled,  as 
was  his  custom." 

"  Come,"  cried  the  lady,  "  I  shall  die  here.  I  cannot  breathe 
this  atmosphere." 

''Murietta,"  growled  the  admiral,  "mind  what  you  do; 
this  is  not  your  affair." 

"This  is  not  your  affair,  Signor  Murietta.     Please  to  be 


The  Pink  Lady  in  St.  Peter  s.          163 

careful  what  you  do,"  said  the  count,  as  he  bowed  and  smiled 
once  more. 

"Will  you  not  come  with  me?    I  need  you." 

"  He  will  not  come,  madam,"  thundered  the  admiral. 

"  I  need  you — I  need  you.  Are  you  a  man  ?  O,  is  there 
one  man  in  Rome  ?  " 

Marietta  was  by  her  side.  He  took  her  hand,  passed  it 
under  his  arm,  and  almost  lifted  her,  as  he  elbowed  his  way 
to  the  door. 

His  face  was  red  with  anger.  He  had  suddenly  grown 
blind  with  rage. 

"  Two  men  against  one  woman  !  "  He  ground  his  teeth  as 
he  said  this  to  himself,  and  turned  on  the  edge  of  the  crowd 
to  look  back  and  see  if  he  was  followed. 

He  almost  wished  he  had  been  followed.  He  would  per 
haps  have  left  the  lady  standing  there  with  her  maid  beside 
the  bowl  of  holy  water,  and — devout  Christian  as  he  was — 
would  have  sprung  like  a  tiger  at  the  throat  of  her  enemy. 

They  were  not  followed.  The  count  and  the  admiral  were 
perhaps  lost  in  the  crowd.  Yet,  had  they  truly  sought  to 
find  the  lady  in  pink,  it  had  certainly  been  no  task  to  find 
her. 

He  dipped  his  fingers  in  the  holy  water,  and  his  sudden 
impulse  and  passion  had  passed. 

"  You  will  pardon  me,  sir.  Some  time  I  may  tell  you  all. 
I  meant  no  harm,  you  see.  But  whenever  I  enter  St. 
Peter's,  I  am  always  seized  with  a  desire  to  dance.  It  looks 
so  much  like  a  great  ball-room  hung  ready  for  the  dancers. 
See  !  how  gay  !  how  bright !  how  many-colored  and  fantas 
tic  !  Why,  is  it  not  a  ball-room  ?  Do  you  not  hear  the 
music  playing  yonder  ?  Do  you  not  see  the  dancers  moving 
up  and  down  ?  Why,  that  old  monk  there  in  that  fustian 
dress  is  already  drunk  with  wine,  and  the  ball  is  only  just 
begun  !  " 

Murietta  looked  at  her  in  pity.     "  Surely,  surely  she  is 


164  The  One  Fair    Woman. 

mad,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  again  dipped  his  fingers  in  the 
holy  water  and  piously  crossed  himself  as  he  bowed  his 
head. 

She  sxiddenly  grew  very  grave.  "  I  am  by  nature  a  devotee. 
I  should  have  made  a  good  Catholic,  a  good  fire- worshipper 
a  good  anything  that  demands  a  whoJe  and  undivided  heart. 
But  I  will  not  be  led.  I  will  not  be  blindfolded  ;  or  at  least 
I  will  not  hold  up  the  scales  to  my  own  eyes.  Look  here  ! 
Do  you  see  this  ? 

The  peasants  were  still  filing  past,  bowing  before  and  kiss 
ing  the  foot  of  the  statue  of  St.  Peter. 

"  Is  that  religion  ?  No  !  Yes  !  I  will  answer  for  you. 
It  is  on  the  part  of  the  peasant.  On  the  part  of  the  priest, 
who  knows  better,  it  is  blasphemy.  Not  one  of  these  poor 
peasants  can  read.  Not  one  of  them  knows  what  the  true  re 
ligion  is.  They  are  the  poorest,  the  lowest,  the  most  miser 
able  beings  on  earth.  And  who  made  them  so  ?  The  men 
who  built  St.  Peter's.  What  keeps  them  so  ?  St.  Peter's. 
I  would  blow  St.  Peter's  to  the  moon  !  " 

Murietta  was  more  embarrassed  and  puzzled  than  before. 
They  were  moving -to  wards  the  door.  He  did  not  answer 
her,  but  lifted  the  edge  of  the  great  leathern  apron,  handed 
the  priest  a  few  coppers,  and  the  two  passed  out,  followed  by 
the  maid,  and  descended  to  the  carriage  at  the  foot  of  the 
great  circular  steps. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


THE    COUNTESS    AT    HOME. 


HE  countess  beckoned  Muri- 
etta  to  enter  the  carriage. 
Little  Sunshine  leaned  from 
the  carriage  as  they  stepped 
in,  and  with  his  face  half 
hidden  in  his  curls,  was  try 
ing  to  balance  a  little  balloon 
that  had  hardly  made  up  its 
mind  whether  to  lie  down  on 
the  ground  or  rise  up  into  the  air. 

"  Writing  it  down  !  writing  it 
down  !  murmured  the  lady.  They  are 
'writing  down  everything  I  do  or  say. 
They  are  getting  up  evidence  to  put 
me  in  a  madhouse.  I — " 

She  caught  the  eyes  of  little  Sun 
shine,  reached  out  her  hands,  took  him 

in  her  lap,  set  him  down  between  herself  and  Murietta,  and 
laughing  softly,  and  toying  with  his  hair,  and  adjusting  her 
dress,  she  made  a  sign  to  the  maid  seated  before  her.  The 
maid  pulled  a  string ;  the  man  pnshed  the  driver ;  the 
driver  drew  the  reins,  and  they  rolled  away  at  a  sharp  trot 
over  the  little  square  paving-stones,  around  the  end  of  the 
great  curving  colonnade  under  the  Vatican,  and  out  through 
the  gate  of  St.  Angelo. 


1 66  The  One  Fair    Woman. 

Murietta  felt  vexed  at  first,  after  fairly  settling  himself  in  the 
carriage,  and  was  certain  that  now  he  was  to  hear  a  long  his 
tory  of  domestic  warfare,  that  could  only  be  painful  and  un 
pleasant  to  hear. 

She  lifted  her  face,  looked  up  at  Monte  Mario  before 
them,  and  pointing  with  her  little  baby  hand,  said  : 

"It  was  on  that  mountain  the  French  first  planted  the  cannon 
which  drove  Garibaldi  from  Borne.  You  see  it  is  the  highest 
point  within  ten  miles  of  the  city.  It  is  the  key  of  Rome. 
It  is  Rome  itself.  But,  wonderful  as  it  is  to  tell,  Garibaldi 
had  not  mounted  a  single  gun.  Look  at  those  black 
cedars !  Well  we  will  drive  up  there  some  day,  and  I  will 
show  you  the  very  tracks  of  the  cannon.  You  can  see  where 
those  red-mouthed  orators  of  war  stood  on  the  summit  of  the 
mountain,  and  talked  in  unmistakable  terms  to  Garibaldi  in 
the  dear  old  city  below." 

"What  an  oversight  in  the  Liberator  !  " 

"Ah,  just  what  you  might  expect  from  Garibaldi.  Gari 
baldi,  you  know,  never  was  a  general.  He  is-  only  a  colonel. 
He  can  handle  a  regiment  perhaps  better  than  any  man  since 
Caesar.  Beyond  that,  he  is  beyond  his  depth.  He  is,  how 
ever,  the  next  best  man  in  Italy  after  the  king,  for  he  is  hon 
est  and  unselfish,  and  has  more  political  ability  than  all  the 
Mazzinis  that  have  ever  been.  In  fact,  do  you  know,  while 
Garibaldi  led  his  men  to  battle,  that  man  lay  hidden  away 
in  an  old  garret  in  the  Jew  quarter,  trembling  for  his  life." 

"It  is  incredible!" 

"  It  is  very  true,  nevertheless." 

The  lady  again  played  with  the  long  sunny  hair  that  fell 
from  the  little  head  leaning  on  her  breast,  and  there  was  a 
silence. 

Murietta,  who  had  at  first  been  really  dreading  that  he 
should  have  to  listen  to  a  recital  of  wrongs,  now  began  to  fear 
she  would  not  relate  her  story  at  all,  and  tried  in  a  desultory 
sort  of  way  to  lead  back  again  to  the  scene  in  St.  Peter's. 


The   Countess  at  Home.  167 

She  seemed  not  to  understand  the  drift  of  his  observations, 
and  there  was  again  a  silence. 

They  were  passing  up  close  to  the  borders  of  the  Tiber,  be 
tween  a  long,  long  avenue  of  locust  trees,  arid  poplar,  and 
chestnut,  that  almost  shut  out  the  light.  Men  were  treading 
wine  by  the  roadside ;  women  were  singing  as  they  gathered 
corn  from  the  yellow  shocks,  and  some  peasant  minstrels  in 
goatskins  piped  and  played  as  the  carriages  passed,  and  caught 
the  pennies  thrown  them  as  they  danced,  and  before  they 
touched  the  ground. 

As  they  approached  Ponte  Malo  and  the  road  leading  away 
towards  Florence,  they  came  upon  the  Field  of  Mars  by  the 
left  roadside,  and  close  to  the  banks  of  the  turbid  river. 

The  field  was  full  of  soldiers.  Cannon  were  booming 
against  the  Sabine  hills,  and  now  and  then  long  lines  of  rifle 
men  would  wheel  to  the  front,  and  the  rattle  of  musketry 
would  make  strange  music  as  it  fell  in  the  interrupted  rests 
of  the  camion  fired  at  the  target  fixed  at  the  base  of  the  Sa 
bine  hills. 

The  horses  stepped  gingerly.  The  Italian  servants  bright 
ened  up  as  if  they  took  a  pride  in  this  mimic  battle  that  was 
going  on,  and  held  a  little  of  the  old  fire  that  animated  men 
when  Rome  was  Rome. 

A  little  man  with  a  waist  and  a  face  like  a  woman's,  gal 
loped  by  with  a  handful  of  followers.  His  enormous  blond 
moustache,  such  a  big  moustache  on  such  a  little  face,  looked 
as  if  he  wore  a  coat  of  fur  about  his  throat. 

"  The  Crown  Prince  of  Italy,"  said  the  countess.  "  Look 
at  that  face.  Do  you  fancy  those  little  hands  can  hold  to 
gether  the  unsettled  States  of  Rome,  when  the  reins  fall  from 
the  hands  of  his  great  father?  " 

Murietta  only  answered  with  his  eyes. 

"  You  see,  the  king  is  great.  He  is  really  great,  a  wonder 
ful  man.  He  is  born  out  of  his  time.  ISTot  in  advance  of  his 
time,  understand,  but  at  least  a  thousand  years  behind  it. 


1 68  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

He  is  a  sort  of  wild  boar.  A  perfect  grizzly  bear.  He 
has  the  will  and  strength  of  a  lion.  If  he  lives,  Italy  lives ; 
if  he  dies,  Italy  is  worse  off  than  when  under  the  popes." 

There  was  a  smell  of  powder  in  the  air  as  they  passed  out 
of  the  avenue  of  trees,  and  turned  to  the  right  and  passed 
under  the  tower  of  Ponti  Malo. 

They  passed  long  lines  of  peasants  bearing  wood  on  their 
backs  to  Rome.  Some  of  these  carried  loads  of  cork,  some 
had  charcoal,  some  had  willows  to  be  woven  into  baskets. 
Little  mules  drew  little  carts  Loaded  with  wine  for  the  city, 
and  here  and  there  a  shepherd  in  a  sheepskin  coat,  with 
naked  legs,  led  a  sheep  or  goat  to  the  city  to  be  sold  and 
slaughtered. 

Now  and  then  they  would  meet  splendid  equipages  on  their 
way  out  to  the  Parade,  or  to  the  grand  and  pleasant  drives 
on  the  Sabine  hills  beyond  the  Tiber. 

At  last  they  drew  up  close  to  the  great  gate  of  Rome, 
known  as  the  Porto  Populo.  Still  was  the  fair  lady  playing 
with  the  golden  hair,  and  still  was  she  silent  on  the  subject 
of  which  Murietta  was  now  most  curious  to  hear  her  speak. 

Perhaps  he  was  a  little  bit  vulgar  in  his  curiosity.  He 
was  even  now  ashamed  of  it,  and  would  not  freely  admit  to 
himself  that  just  at  this  time  he  would  give  a  great  deal  to 
have  her  tell  him  who  she  was,  and  by  what  right  that  great 
vulgar  sailor  swore  at  or  even  spoke  to  her  at  all. 

They  drove  under  the  great  arch  with  great  difficulty.  It 
was  like  going  up  against  the  current  of  a  very  swift  and 
narrow  stream,  for  the  people  were  pouring  out  in  thousands 
to  walk  in  the  Borghese  or  to  cross  the  Tiber,  and  see  the 
soldiers  at  drill,  or  the  flocks  on  the  green  hills  beyond. 

The  Corso  was  full  of  people  on  foot.  These  people  walk 
in  the  middle  of  the  street  and  among  the  carriages  with 
perfect  impunity. 

These  Italian  cities  have  not,  or  had  not  till  very  lately, 
any  side-walks  at  all.  They  were  built  for  only  two  classes, 


The  Coimtess  at  Home.  169 

were  these  cities  of  Italy,  the  peasant  on  foot  and  the  prince 
in  his  carriage. 

Yet  this  crowd  will  part  as  the  carriages  approach,  will 
part  and  come  together,  and  part  again,  and  flow  on  gaily, 
pleasantly,  laughingly,  like  a  stream  of  water  running  among 
the  rocks. 

Still  the  woman  in  pink  was  silent.  Still  her  small  baby 
hand  lifted  and  toyed  with  the  golden  hair  that  fell  in  sunny 
folds  upon  her  breast. 

They  reached  the  palace  of  the  Cardinal  Bonaparte,  and 
Murietta  lifted  his  hat.  He  kissed  his  hand  in  the  air  to 
some  invisible  object,  and  looked  as  though  he  really  had 
seen  a  face  that  he  loved. 

The  lady  looked  at  him  with  the  old  wonder  in  her  wide 
brown  eyes,  and  the  color  flowed  to  her  face. 

Then  the  color  rose  to  the  face  of  Murietta  too,  and  they 
both  looked  down  in  the  carriage,  and  did  not  look  up  again 
till  they  passed  the  Via  Angelo  Custoda  and  drove  under  an 
arch,  and  entered  a  great  court  and  stopped  at  the  bottom  of 
great  tufa  steps,  so  wide  and  low  and  slanting  that  you 
might  drive  a  carriage  up  them. 

"  This  is  my  home,"  sighed  the  Countess  Edna,  "  and  I  am 
almost  afraid  to  enter  it." 

Murietta  began  to  think,  "  Now  her  story  will  be  told." 
He  looked  at  her  inquiringly. 

"  Yes,  I  live  here,  and  a  sad  sort  of  a  life  it  is.  I  had  rather 
live  alone  under  a  tree.  Rather  live  in  a  hut,  a  peasant's 
hut,  with  but  a  single  grape  vine  and  my  little  boy  about  me 
— than  in  this  great  palace  in  all  this  gilded  misery  !  " 

She  turned  to  the  artist  and  laid  her  little  hand  on  his 
arm.  Then  looking  sadly  and  earnestly  into  his  face,  she 
said;  "Ah,  my  friend,  you  may  build  a  palace  even  ten 
stories  high  ;  and,  after  all,  it  is  but  little  nearer  to  heaven 
than  a  cottage." 

The  artist  began  to  be  ashamed  of  his  vulgar  curiosity. 


170  The  One  Fair    Woman. 

He  pitied  her  fi'om  the  bottom  of  his  heart.  She  was  so 
in  earnest,  so  sad  yet  so  beautiful,  so  fashioned  for  happiness, 
so  willing  to  make  others  happy  around  her. 

She  did  not  speak  again  till  they  had  climbed  the  steps 
and  were  standing  by  the  massive  doors. 

"  I  want  to  say  a  word  or  two  to  you.  You  will  come  in  ? 
If  the  count  is  in,  or  the  admiral,  you  will  wait  till  they  go, 
or  you  will  call  soon  again  ?  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you." 

The  little  hand  trembled  like  a  bird  that  has  just  been 
taken  in  the  toils,  as  it  withdrew  from  his  arm. 

"  What  then  does  the  woman  mean  ?  "  thought  Murietta. 
"  Here  she  has  let  all  this  time  go  by,  and  not  a  word  has  she 
uttered.  Now  at  the  last  moment,  she  has  some  awful  secret 
at  the  end  of  her  tongue.  Was  ever  such  a  curious  thing  as 
woman  ?  " 

They  passed  through  the  ante-camera,  hung  with  old  arms, 
implements  of  the  chase  and  the  field,  and  old  and  ugly  busts 
and  aged  pictures,  and  moth-eaten  tapestry  on  the  time- 
stained  walls. 

Then  a  smaller  hall,  then  a  great  triangular  salon,  gor 
geous  with  all  that  embellishes  the  heart  of  the  palace  of  a 
perfect  Italian.  Gilt  and  mosaics  everywhere.  Pictures, 
frescoes,  blood-red  carpets,  blood-red  curtains  ;  vases,  flowers, 
fragrant  herbs  in  basketsful ;  and  about  the  windows  and  in 
the  corners  of  the  great  triangular  salon,  built  in  this 
shape  as  a  preservative  against  the  evil  eye,  were  perfect  little 
forests  of  all  kinds  of  beautiful  and  fragrant  vines  and  roses. 

The  lady  passed  through  this  and  led  into  an  adjoining 
room.  This  was  a  round-built  salon,  and  arched  overhead 
like  the  heavens,  and  painted  blue,  with  clouds  and  a  moon 
and  stars  ;  and  looking  at  it  you  might  have  imagined  you 
were  in  a  diminutive  world  of  your  own,  so  perfect  was  the 
painting  of  the  sky  and  clouds  and  twinkling  stars. 

Gilt  and  glass  again.     Carpets,  and  curtains,  and  forests  of 


The   Countess  at  Home.  171 

ferns  grouped  around  against  the  painted  walls  of  the  curious 
little  salon. 

"  Ah,  how  beautiful  !  "  cried  Murietta.  "  And  do  you j 
not  think  it  a  beautiful  little  retreat  ?  It  is  so  beautiful  !  " 
It  is  just  such  a  house  as  I  shall  have — that  is,  if  I  ever  have 
a  house,"  hesitated  the  artist,  looking  timidly  around.  "  Yes, 
I  shall  have  a  house  just  like  this  room.  I  will  build  a  house 
with  one  great  big  room.  Just  one  room  ;  that  is  best.  I 
do  not  want  but  one  room.  That  is  the  way  the  Indians  live, 
and  it  is  the  best  and  the  warnest  and  the  most  friendly  way 
to  live  in  the  world.  You  see  I  would  have  a  fire  here. 
Yes,  I  would  have  a  fire  here  in  the  centre,  so  that  we  could 
all  get  around  it  in  a  good  and  a  friendly  way.  That  is  as 
the  Indians  have  it — it  is  the  best  way — a  sort  of  wigwam. 
And  there,"  he  pointed  up  at  the  top,  "  I  would  have  a 
hole — a  hole  for  the  light  to  come  in  and  the  smoke  to  go 
out." 

"  Hush,  hush,  for  Heaven's  sake  !  They  are  coming. 
Don't  let  them,  don't  let  him,  hear  you  talk  so.  They  will 
write  it  all  down  and  put  you  in  a  madhouse." 

She  had  corne  up  to  the  artist,  stood  close  beside  him,  laid 
one  little  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  with  the  other  had 
closed  his  mouth. 

"  Listen,  I  cannot  say  more  now  !  "  She  lifted  her  finger 
in  the  air.  "  But  there  is  something  going  on  that  is  not 
altogether  right.  I  had  a  brother.  He  came  to  Italy  to  take 
me  away.  Well,  he  is  gone,  I  do  not  know  where.  I  believe 
they  have  murdered  him.  Listen  !  No.  Not  now.  I  will 
tell  you — I  will  tell  you  the  first  possible  chance.  In  the 
meantime,  promise  me,  promise  me  solemnly  to  return  soon." 

"  I  promise." 

Murietta  said  this  sullenly  and  with  a  sense  of  humili 
ation.  He  felt  that  he  had  for  a  moment  been  disloyal  to 
his  love,  to  his  ideal,  to  the  one  fair  woman  of  whom  he  had 
dreamed  all  his  life. 


172  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

It  seemed  to  make  no  difference  at  all  to  lain  now  that  his 
love  was  hopeless.  He  had  loved  Annette  before  he  saw 
her.  He  could  and  would,  must  and  coiild  not  help  loving 
her,  even  after  she  had  scorned  him.  He  had  now  this  day 
allowed  the  one  woman  of  his  life,  the  one  being  set  up  in  his 
heart,  to  be  shaken  for  a  moment  on  her  pedestal.  He  was 
ashamed  of  himself.  He  wanted  to  go  up  into  the  mountains 
and  pray,  as  it  were.  He  wanted  to  be  alone  again  and  bow 
down  before  his  idol,  and  make  a  new  covenant  to  love  none 
but  her. 

No,  he  would  not  sit  down.  He  was  tired.  He  turned, 
he  shook  the  beautiful  pink  lady  out  of  his  heart — the  lan 
guid,  the  listless,  the  loving  beauty — the  most  worthy,  the 
bravest,  and  the  best  woman,  quite  out  of  his  heart — the  one 
woman  who  needed  his  help,  his  advice,  his  moral  support — 
and  turned  on  his  heel  and  passed  out  and  down  and  into  the 
streets. 

As  he  passed  the  flashing  fountain  of  Trevi,  he  threw  a 
handful  of  French  and  English  coins  into  the  water  and  made 
a  wish. 

That  night  the  artist  stood  all  alone  before  his  canvas  till 
the  sun  rose  up  and  entered  in  above  the  (Japitoline. 

Then  he  was  not  alone,  for  on  his  canvas  was  Annette, 
looking  at  him,  looking  back  at  him  over  her  shoulder,  turning 
from  him,  passing  away. 

Ever  she  moved  before  him  thus. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


AN   ITALIAN   DOCTOR. 


URIETTA  looked  at  his  new  pic- 
ture  in  the  new  light  of  morn 
ing  with  a  singular  expression 
on  his  worn  and  weary  face.  He 
turned  it  to  the  light,  turned 
it  away,  turned  it  sideways, 
turned  it  in  every  conceivable 
way  ;  still  it  did  not  please  him. 
Surely  it  was  not  the  fault  of  the 
hand  that  fashioned  it,for  it  was 
as  wonderful  in  its  execution 
as  it  was  sudden.  It  was  such  a  like 
ness,  such  a  beautiful,  matchless,  and 
magnificent  face.  You  could  only 
see  the  face,  and  yet  you  could  fancy 
you  saw  the  lady,  saw  her  moving, 
gliding,  passing  away,  turning,  looking  back  over  her  shoul 
der,  earnest,  thoughtful,  full  of  soul — but  it  was  a  soul  of 
pity,  of  sympathy,  not  of  love. 

And  this  it  was  that  tormented  the  fevered  brain  of  Muriet- 
ta.  She  was  forever  turning  away  from  him  ;  not  scornfully, 
not  suddenly  or  severely,  but  sadly,  and  with  a  face  full  of 
pity  for  him,  and  that  sort  of  sympathy  which  a  great  and 
good  soul  feels  for  an  inferior  one  when  troubled. 

He  had  drawn  this  picture  in  a  state  of  mind  that  made 


174  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

him  almost  beyond  the  reach  of  responsibility  for  his  acts. 
He  had  painted  this  by  the  dim  candle-light,  and  in  a  single 
night,  and  all  from  memory.  Yet  he  had,  from  the  first  be 
ginning  of  that  picture,  determined  to  paint  quite  another 
position  and  quite  another  expression.  Time  and  again  he 
had  pictured  this  same  face,  this  same  retiring,  sympathetic 
face,  looking  back  at  him  over  her  shoulder.  If  he  had 
painted  his  ideal  woman,  the  one  who  had  been  set  up  in  his 
heart  from  the  first,  it  is  pretty  certain  he  hail  painted  this 
same  picture,  and  painted  it  exactly  after  this  fashion.  At 
least  he  could  now  only  image  her  in  that  way.  He  tried  to 
recall  the  time  when  she  had  not  been  turning  away  from 
him,  looking  back  in  a  great  sympathy — but  he  could  not. 

He  turned  the  picture  to  the  cold,  bright  sunbeams  that 
pitched  through  the  little  window  down  over  the  Capitoline 
Hill  once  more,  and  walked  around  and  around  and  around, 
and  began  to  talk  to  himself  in  a  low,  quiet  way.  Then  he 
turned  the  picture  again.  This  time  he  smiled  and  uttered 
an  exclamation  of  delight. 

The  picture,  the  face  was  looking  at  him  as  if  it  might  re 
turn,  as  if  it  had  stopped  in  its  retreat  and  would  come  back, 
and  lay  its  hand  on  his  arm,  and  talk  to  him  in  a  low,  sweet 
way,  and  not  be  forever  turning  from  him. 

He  stepped  close  to  the  picture,  spoke  to  it,  clasped  his 
hands,  and  looked  engerly  in  the  face,  for  he  thought  he  saw 
the  lips  move,  and  he  waited  to  hear  her  answer  him. 

The  door  softly  opened.  "  Did  you  call,  signor  ?  "  He 
turned  his  head  angrily  and  beckoned  the  countess  from  the 
room. 

The  dream  seemed  broken.  He  could  not  get  the  face  to 
look  at  him  again,  turn  it  as  he  would.  His  hands  were 
cold ;  his  head  was  in  a  fever. 

Around  and  around  and  around  he  moved,  and  turned  the 
picture  in  every  possible  light ;  yet  all  the  time  it  was  pass 
ing  away,  and  would  come  to  him  no  more. 


An  Italian  Doctor.  175 

He  caught  up  a  dagger  that  lay  on  the  little  table  at  his 
side.  "  I  have  followed  you — I  have  followed  you  for  a 
thousand  years.  Centuries  before  I  was  born,  it  seems  to 
uie,  I  sought  to  find  you  out  among  the  millions  that  make 
their  journey  through  the  chartless  seas,  and  touch  the  stars, 
and  land  sometimes  to  rest  like  birds  in  flight,  but  found  no 
place  where  we  might  rest  till  now." 

"  At  last  we  two  are  on  this  earth  !  We  two  have  touched 
this  little  grain  of  dust  that  rises  in  the  great  highway  of 
stars  from  the  wheels  of  Time  ;  we  two  together!  and  yet  you, 
after  all  my  years  of  weary  waiting,  will  turn  away  and  come 
to  me  no  more  !  " 

He  folded  his  arms,  tucked  the  little  blade  up  under  his 
arm,  and  stood  before  the  picture  ;  and  he  looked  at  it,  and 
bowed  forward,  and  he  listened,  and  he  seemed  to  hear  it 
speak — to  speak  to  him — to  answer  back — and  to  turn  to 
him.  Yet  all  the  time  his  brow  grew  dark,  his  lips  hot,  and 
his  breathing  short  and  quick. 

Suddenly  he  sprang  erect.  He  seemed  to  have  heard  her 
final  answer. 

The  blade  was  in  the  air.  He  struck  his  foot  on  the  floor, 
and  cried, — 

"  There,  go  !  go  !  I  command  you  to  go  !  I  cui-se  you — I 
kill —  There  !  take  that  and  go  from  out  my  heart,  for  you 
have  been  my  bane  and  death  !  " 

He  struck  the  dagger  through  the  picture,  and  leaving  it 
there,  staggered  on  past  it  through  the  open  door,  and  fell 
with  his  face  buried  in  his  bed. 

Nothing  is  so  hard  for  an  over-taxed  mind  to  do  as  noth 
ing. 

Murietta,  all  these  months  past,  had  been  attempting  to 
rest.  The  result  was,  his  mind  was  hard  at  work,  and  grew 
more  wearied  than  ever. 

The  mind  can  only  rest  at  work.  Lie  down  to  sleep,  and 
the  more  tired  you  are,  the  more  certain  is  the  soul  to  take 


176  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

strange  journeys,  and  vex  you  with  scenes  that  you  would  not 
see. 

Had  this  artist  had  the  strength  and  the  determination, 
after  his  first  disappointment,  to  quietly  find  out  some  pleas 
ant  English  village,  sit  down  there,  picture  old  cathedrals, 
lonesome  lanes,  and  stout  human  faces,  he  had  rested  at  his 
work  and  been  very  well.  As  it  was,  he  travelled.  Just  as 
if  a  man  could  travel  away  from  himself  ! 

And  now  at  last,  with  this  counter-current,  this  beautiful 
Countess  with  her  pitiful  face  and  all  her  troubles  crossing 
his  path,  appealing  to  him,  and  then  his  hard  life  and  horrible 
cell  on  the  shady  side  of  the  Tarpeian  Rock,  the  miasma 
blowing  in  from  the  Pontine  Marshes,  the  poisonous  air  gene 
rated  in  the  wretched  Jew  quarter — all  these  were  too  much. 
The  artist  was  mad  with  the  Roman  fever. 

As  he  lay  there,  the  bea\itiful  Countess,  in  her  strange  but 
becoming  dress  of  rose  and  pink,  was  before  him  all  the  time 
and  pleading  to  him  for  help. 

Pie  knew  perfectly  well,  insane  as  he  was  with  the  fever, 
that  his  own  mind  now  was  not  over  practical  and  cool.  He 
felt  that  his  life  and  soul  were  not  on  a  level  with  the  world 
around  him,  and  that  in  the  battle  with  the  world  he  stood  at 
a  sore  disadvantage.  True,  he  might  be  above  them  all ;  yet 
to  be  alone,  to  be  lifted  up,  is  to  be  made  a  mark  for  every 
archer's  arrow. 

If  you  would  have  rest,  or  make  a  successful  fight,  keep 
down  in  the  open  plain,  and  on  a  level  with  your  fellows,  for 
that  is  best. 

He  now  remembered  more  vividly  than  ever  before,  his  old 
terror  of  the  madhouse.  He  seemed  to  see  all  his  friends,  all 
the  fearless  and  bold  and  original  men  who  dared  speak,  live, 
act,  as  they  believed  and  for  themselves,  shut  tip  by  the  great 
majority  who  live,  act,  speak,  as  is  prescribed  and  ordered  by 
society. 

He  saw  himself  persecuted,  hunted  down,  caught,  confined 


An  Italian  Doctor.  177 

in  a  damp  prison,  behind  rusty  bars,  watched  by  a  set  of  im 
beciles,  pitied  by  a  set  of  well-regulated  philanthropists,  and 
lie  began  to  cry  out  in  his  agony  of  mind.  He  half  awoke. 
His  mind  settled  in  its  place  a  moment.  Yet  the  Countess, 
in  her  warm,  soft  attire  of  rose  and  pink  was  before  him 
still. 

Never  had  she  seemed  so  near  to  him  before.  His  own 
stormy  seas  had  thrown  him  on  the  sands  at  her  feet, 

He  seemed  to  understand  her  now.  He  pictured  himself 
as  standing  in  her  place. 

He  remembered  how  terrible  it  had  been  to  him  when  men 
tried  to  make  him  appear  insane.  Yet  he  was  a  man,  strong 
enough,  well  enough,  with  all  the  world  before  him,  and  he 
was  free  to  choose  his  time  of  going  and  his  place  of  retreat. 

But  here  was  a  weak  and  helpless  woman,  one  who  cer 
tainly  had  seen  nothing  at  all  of  the  bad  side  of  life,  a  woman 
with  a  family,  bound  by  ties  of  man  and  God  to  a  certain 
person  and  to  a  certain  form  of  conduct.  And  this  woman, 
too,  was  being  persecuted  by  a  beast — a  sort  of  Caliban  and 
old  man  of  the  mountains  combined,  from  whom  she  could 
not  escape.  And  these  were  trying  to  make  her  appear  in 
sane  ! 

He  saw  all  this  as  she  stood  before  him  there,  and  his  heart 
filled  full  of  sympathy.  He  seemed  to  stand  beside  her.  He 
saw  that  their  souls  stood  very  near  together  now  in  their 
trouble,  and  he  questioned  himself  why  he  could  not  reach 
out  his  hand  to  the  only  one  in  the  world  that  stood  by  his 
side  and  understood  him. 

Then  he  thought  of  Annette.  He  saw  her  as  he  had  seen 
her  ten  thousand  times.  She  was  still  in  his  heart,  the  one 
great  picture  there,  the  central  figure  on  its  walls.  But  she 
was  going  away,  it  seemed  to  him.  She  was  looking  back 
over  her  shoulder,  turning  sharp  about,  she  seemed  to  be. 
Yet  he  had  seen  her  ever  thus  before.  He  thought  this  all 
over,  and  tried  to  remember  what  had  happened  that  morn- 


178  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

ing  between  them.  He  was  certain  lie  had  just  been  talking 
to  her.  Even  now,  as  she  was  turning  away,  passing  out  of 
sight,  looking  back,  her  lips  were  half  parted. 

Perhaps  she  had  just  been  saying  farewell  ! 

This  thought  maddened  him.  He  sprang  up,  shrieked 
aloud  and  reached  his  hands  in  the  air,  and  then  fell  back 
moaning  in  his  bed. 

A  little  lady  with  a  storm  of  black  hair  stood  before  him. 
She  came  up  close  to  the  bed. 

"  Come  here,  my  Roman  lady,  I  have  a  story  to  tell  you." 

The  little  Countess  came  as  close  as  she  dared  up  to  the 
bedside  of  her  singular  lodger. 

"  You  see  that  picture  there  with  the  dagger  through  it  ?" 

He  partly  turned  in  his  bed  and  pointed  to  the  picture  he 
had  painted  that  night,  and  which  he  had  been  talking  to 
that  morning.  "  Well,  she  has  gone  away.  She  will  never 
come  back  any  more.  You  know  how  beautiful  she  was — 
how  good — how  gentle  she  was  to  all  of  us  ?  " 

"  But  I  never  saw  her." 

"  Never  saw  her  ?  Why,  she  was  here  all  night.  And 
you  did  not  see  her  ?  Well,  she  has  gone  away  and  will  never 
come  back  any  more  !  "  He  turned  on  his  side  and  hid  his 
face  in  his  hands. 

After  awhile  he  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  up.  A  black- 
eyed  little  lady  with  a  storm  of  black  hair  stood  beside  him. 

"And  you  did  not  see  her  ?  " 

"See  whom?" 

"  The  lady  that  I  painted  last  night,  the  lady  that  I  was 
talking  to  you  about." 

"  Nay,  you  have  been  talking  to  my  sister." 

"  And  where  has  your  sister  gone  then  ?  " 

"  She  has  gone  with  the  prince  to  bring  you  a  doctor,  for 
you  are  very  ill." 

"  Well,  what  an  idea !  Why,  you  see  I  have  been  at  work 
on  that  picture.  I  had  to  finish  it  last  night.  I  finished  it ! 


An  Italian  Doctor.  179 

I  finished  it  without  raising  my  head.  My  hand  is  so  tired, 
it  aches  as  if  it  would  break.  And  then,  don't  you  think, 
she  went  off  in  a  rage  about  it  ?  See  !  my  dagger  is  through 
it !  My  dagger  is  in  it  up  to  the  hilt." 

The  little  countess  stood  back  to  the  wall  as  the  man  rose 
in  his  bed  looking  straight  in  her  face. 

Then  he  reached  out  his  hand,  and  pointing  at  the  picture 
and  wagging  his  finger,  said, — 

"  I  scattered  roses  in  her  path.  I  followed  her  by  sea  and 
land.  I  waited  and  watched  and  worked  for  a  thousand  years, 
and  now  just  see  what  comes  of  it !  "  Again  the  man  sank 
back,  burning  with  fever,  and  hid  his  face  in  the  bedclothes. 

He  raised  his  face  again,  and  looked  at  the  little  woman  in 
black  and  abundant  hair  who  stood  before  him. 

"  Was  it  wrong  ?  Do  you  think  it  was  wrong  ?  " 

"  "Wrong  ?  what  was  wrong  ?  " 

"  Wrong  to  drive  the  dagger  through  her  breast  ?  " 

"  Holy  Mother  !  what  is  the  man  talking  of?"  The  little 
woman  retired  back  to  the  door. 

"  Talking  of  ?  Why  of  the  picture — the  picture  I  was  just 
telling  you  about." 

"  Telling  me?  No,  you  must  have  been  telling  my  sister." 

"  And  has  your  sister  gone  ?  " 

"  Yes,  for  a  moment." 

«  Where  ?  " 

"  To  bring  you  a  priest." 

"  Why  a  priest  ?  why  ?  " 

"  O  signor,  you  are  so  very,  very  ill !  " 

Murietta  did  not  answer.  He  understood  it  all  now,  and 
stretched  himself  back  in  his  bed  with  his  face  to  the  door, 
while  the  little  countess  stood  waiting  and  watching,  and 
ever  and  anon  looking  out  of  the  door  and  listening  for  steps 
on  the  narrow  stone  stairs. 

There  was  the  rattle  of  a  sabre  on  the  step.  The  door 
opened  into  the  little  hall,  and  then  into  the  little  salon 


180  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

where  the  picture  drooped  with  the  dagger  in  it  as  if  it  had 
wilted  in  the  sun. 

The  doctor  lifted  his  felt-bare  hat  and  brushed  it  a  little 
with  his  threadbare  sleeve  before  proceeding  to  set  it 
down  on  the  little  table  by  the  picture.  At  the  same  time 
his  black  eyes  wandered,  or  rather  danced,  about  the  room  as 
if  to  take  an  inventory  of  the  baggage  and  the  property  in 
sight. 

It  did  not  take  him  long.  There  was  a  wrinkle  in  his 
brow  when  he  had  finished.  Then  he  looked  at  the  picture. 

"Ah  !  an  artist  !  "  There  were  now  two  wrinkles  in  his 
brow.  He  looked  through  the  door  into  the  bed-room,  saw 
the  walls  hung  with  strange  implements  of  the  savages,  and 
said,  "  Ah  !  an  American  artist  !  "  There  were  now  three 
wrinkles  in  his  brow. 

This  man  wore  the  moustache  so  dear  to  every  Italian. 
But  his  moustache  seemed  to  be  ashamed  of  itself,  and  was 
all  the  time  trying  to  hide  up  under  his  nose.  His  eyes 
were  black  and  small  and  unsatisfied,  and  stood  very  close 
together  as  if  they  too  wanted  to  take  shelter  under  the 
doctor's  nose.  There  was  nothing  particularly  noticeable 
about  the  man's  brow  save  the  three  wrinkles  just  above  the 
nose,  and  the  thick  black  hair  just  above  the  wrinkles.  He 
was  a  tall,  thin  man  who  looked  as  if  he  had  not  dined  for 
years.  Across  his  arm  was  a  little  leather  bag,  but  it  was 
so  little  and  so  light  that  it  did  not  seem  to  make  the  least 
impression  for  itself.  It  was  as  if  a  big  leather- winged  bat 
had  blown  out  of  the  ruins  somewhere  and  lit  on  his  arm  as 
he  passed. 

Behind  the  doctor,  who  stood  in  the  doorway,  now  taking 
an  inventory  of  the  baggage  in  the  bed-room,  stood  a  stout, 
heavy,  round-faced,  beardless  man,  whom  Murietta  somehow 
at  once  knew  to  be  Prince  Trawaska.  His  right  hand  rested 
on  the  hilt  of  his  sabre  ;  his  left  held  his  cap,  which  he  kept 
poising  and  turning  lightly  in  the  air,  while  Marietta 


An  Italian  Doctor.  181 

measured  him,  as  if  it  made  him  a  little  nervous  to  be 
looked  at. 

The  doctor  turned  his  head  to  the  prince  in  light  blue  uni 
form,  all  ablaze  with  buttons  and  broad  gold  lace  and  glitter 
ing  epaulettes. 

"  Why  do  you  bring  me  here  ?" 

"  The  countess  said  the  man  was  mad  with  the  fever." 

"  Mad  he  may  be ;  mad  he  is — but  I !  a  professor  !  an 
Italian  physician,  doctor  to  the  Duke  of  Mont-ebello,  the 
King  of  Naples,  the  Duchess  of  Sicily  !  But  this  man  has 
not  baggage  enough  to  pay  for  his  coffin !" 

The  prince  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Ah,  but  he  has 
friends,  perhaps.  We  can  squeeze  his  friends.  Squeeze  his 
friends." 

"  His  friends  !  Does  a  man  who  has  friends  hide  away  in 
a  place  like  this  ?" 

"  But,"  urged  the  two  little  ladies  in  a  breath,  "  the  man 
is  ill — he  is  a  stranger.  He  needs  you ;  will  you  not  help 
him  ?  Besides,  he  is  a  good  man." 

"  A  good  foreigner  ?  and  poor  !"  The  doctor  laughed  in 
a  wicked,  a  devilish  sort  of  a  way,  that  made  Murietta's 
blood  run  cold. 

"  But  if  you  will  please  to  help  him,"  pleaded  the  countess, 
"  we  will  pay  you.  We  will  pay  you  your  five  francs  every 
time  you  must  call." 

"  We  will  pay  you  your  five  francs  every  day,"  cried  four 
sweet  voices  at  the  door  together. 

The  prince  twisted  and  twirled  his  cap  more  nervously 
than  before. 

"  Well,"  said  the  doctor,  after  a  long  breath,  "  that  is — 
you  will  pardon  me,  but  we  professional  men  are  overworked. 
We  are  imposed  upon  also."  He  turned  to  the  four  little 
ladies  all  there  together  (all  so  perfectly  alike  that  even  their 
lovers  sometimes  came  and  began  their  pathetic  tales  of  love 
and  left  them  off,  and  came  and  began  again  to  one  of  the 


1 82  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

four  who  had  not  heard  the  beginning),  and  made  a  long  and 
elaborate  speech. 

Marietta  lay  there  perfectly  conscious,  hearing  and  under 
standing  every  word. 

The  Italian  knave  makes  more  mistakes  than  the  knave  of 
any  race  in  the  world.  This  he  owes  to  his  lively  imagina 
tion.  He  is  all  the  time  jumping  at  conclusions. 

"  Then,  good  doctor,  you  will  attend  him,  and  attend  him 
at  once." 

"  At  once." 

The  little  leather- winged  bat  loosened  itself  from  the  thread 
bare  sleeve  and  fluttered  down  into  the  doctor's  hand  as  he 
stepped  towards  the  bedside,  and  reached  his  hand  to  take 
and  feel  the  pulse  of  the  artist. 

Murietta  drew  back  his  hand,  raised  up  on  his  elbow,  hitch 
ed  himself  back  in  bed,  and  sat  bolt  upright,  looking  the  man 
full  in  the  face. 

The  doctor  took  a  step  back,  and  the  little  leather- winged 
bat  fluttered  again  back  to  its  perch  on  the  arm.  There  was 
a  little  table  by  the  bedside,  and  on  that  little  table  lay  a  pistol. 

Murietta  raised  his  arm,  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow, 
as  if  to  collect  his  thoughts.  Then  he  let  his  hand  fall  care 
lessly  down  at  his  side.  It  rested  very  near  the  butt  of  the 
pistol. 

"  Doctor,  what  is  your  fee  for  this  visit  ?" 

The  prince  jerked  up  his  shoulders  till  his  gorgeous  epau 
lettes  danced  and  rattled  beneath  his  ears.  The  doctor's 
moustache  tried  to  hide  beneath  his  nose,  and  there  was  noth 
ing  visible  on  his  brow  but  the  three  wrinkles. 

"  What  is  your  charge  for  this  visit  ?" 

The  prince  recovered  first.  These  men  from  the  north  are 
always  masters  of  themselves,  even  under  circumstances  that 
will  crush  an  Italian. 

The  round  head,  with  the  big  ears  above  the  gorgeous 
epaulettes,  bowed  forward  and  whispered  in  the  doctor's  ear. 


An  Italian  Doctor.  183 

"  What  is  your  charge,  I  ask,  for  this  visit  ?"  The  artist 
was  getting  loud  and  excited. 

"  Fi — five — five  hundred  francs." 

The  fingers  of  the  artist  clutched  the  butt  of  the  pistol. 
The  thumb  threw  itself  over  the  hammer. 

"  What  is  your  charge  for  this  visit,  I  ask  ?  " 

"  Fi — five — hundred  francs." 

The  prince  leaned  forward  again.  The  big  ears  were  blos 
soming  red  with  excitement. 

"  Gold,  and  in  gold,"  whispered  the  prince,  loud  enough  to 
be  heard  all  over  the  room,  "  say  in  gold  !  " 

"  And  in  gold,"  cried  the  Italian  doctor  boldly,  as  he  and 
the  prince  advanced  together  towards  the  bed. 

Click!  click! 

The  doctor  backed  against  the  prince,  and  the  prince 
backed  right  against  the  wall. 

The  pistol  was  pointed  at  their  heads. 

"  Five  francs  ?     Did  you  say  five  francs,  doctor  ?  " 

The  little  bull-dog  of  a  pistol  stuck  its  nose  out,  thrust  it 
forward,  way  out  in  the  face  of  the  two  men,  as  if  it  was  just 
about  to  bark,  as  if  it  was  positively  anxious  to  bark.  It 
seemed  as  if  it  could  hardly  keep  from  barking  right  out. 
It  seemed  to  say,  "  O,  if  you  will  only  say  five  lumdred 
francs,  so  that  I  can  bark  at  you,  I  will  be  so  glad.  O,  do 
say  five  hundred  francs  !  Please  say  five  hundred  francs  !  " 

The  men  trembled  together  till  a  sabre-point  rattled  against 
the  stone  floor,  and  the  brass  image  of  the  she-wolf  on  the 
soldier's  belt  was  pressed  deep  into  the  body  of  its  wearer  by 
the  cowering  form  of  the  shivering  doctor. 

The  big  ears  had  wilted,  and  were  now  as  pale  as  paste. 

"  Five,"  hissed  the  soldier. 

"  Fi— five,"  said  the  doctor,  catching  his  breath. 

The  pistol  settled  down  on  the  stand,  but  the  hammer  was 
still  lifted.  It  lay  there  like  a  little  bull-clog  showing  its 
teeth  as  if  it  still  was  positively  anxious  to  bark. 


184  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  Countess  !  " 

A  little  woman  came  close  xip  to  his  side.  A  true  old 
Roman  was  she !  One  of  the  mothers  of  the  new  Italy. 

"  You  will  write  a  receipt  in  full  for  five  francs,  for  this 
doctor  to  sign." 

"  And  it  is  to  be  gold,"  said  the  soldier. 

The  little  bull-dog  sprang  up  again  into  the  air.  And  the 
soldier  went  to  the  wall. 

"  Well;"  gold  then,"  said  the  artist,  "the  man  does  not 
want  the  cxm-ency  of  his  country.  Give  him  gold,  and  let 
him  begone." 

The  trembling  hand  of  the  doctor  wrote  his  name. 

Then  the  man  caught  up  his  little  leather  bag  on  his  left 
arm  and  stood  palling  his  moustache  with  his  right  hand. 

The  little  bull-dog  settled  down  on  the  table  by  the  bed 
side,  but  it  still  showed  its  teeth. 

"  Countess,  you  will  hand  this  man,  the  doctor,  five  francs 
in  gold,  and  you  will  tell  him  he  need  not  come  to  visit  me 
any  more." 

The  countess  smiled  a  smile  of  satisfaction  and  perfect 
triumph.  She  handed  him  the  money ;  and  the  doctor,  turn 
ing  to  Marietta,  wished  him  health  and  good  day,  and  bowing, 
took  up  his  hat  and  passed  out. 

"  Call  back  the  doctor  !  "  cried  Murietta. 

The  soldier,  who  was  just  passing  out  of  the  door,  brought 
the  doctor  back,  pushed  him  into  tbe  room,  but  was  very 
careful  to  remain  outside  himself. 

"  You  have  got  your  money,  have  you  ?  '* 

"  Yes,  signor." 

"  You  have  got  your  pay  in  full  ?  " 

"  Yes,  signor." 

"  You  are  perfectly  satisfied  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  satisfied,  signor,  thank  you." 

"  Then  you  can  go,  and  you  need  not  return." 

The  doctor  bowed  more  profoundly  than  before. 


An  Italian  Doctor.  185 

The  cunning  Italian  was  getting  to  have  some  respect  for 
the  foreigner  from  the  West.  As  he  passed  out  of  the  door 
he  turned,  and  bowed  most  profoundly  again. 

He  backed  himself  out  from  the  presence  of  the  artist  as 
if  he  had  been  before  his  king. 

The  Prince  Trawaska,  the  Italian  colonel,  made  a  military 
salute,  and  touched  the  tip  of  his  cap.  He  wheeled  on  his 
heel  as  the  doctor  came  out,  and  was  marching  him  down  the 
stairs  as  if  he  had  been  a  sort  of  new  recruit. 

There  was  a  little  intei-ruption  on  the  stairs,  for  the  sabre 
ceased  to  rattle,  and  voices  were  heard  in  conversation. 
They  had  met  the  priest.  It  is  not  certain,  but  very  probable 
that  the  doctor  forbade  the  priest  to  see  his  patient,  for  he 
did  not  come  up  the  stairs. 

The  sabre  rattled  again ;  and  the  priest  and  the  doctor  and 
the  soldier  were  gone. 

Then  at  his  bed-side,  it  seemed  to  him,  as  he  lay  there 
burning  with  the  fever,  the  Countess  came  and  stood  and 
looked  at  him  with  a  world  of  tenderness ;  but  the  One  Fair 
Woman  only  came  to  pass  right  on  and  away,  looking  back 
over  her  shoulder  as  she  passed. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


ON    THE    PINCIAN    HILL. 


OW  it  rains,  and  rains,  and  rains  in 
Rome,  when  it  once  sets  in  for  the 
winter  !  And  there  is  health  in  this 
rain,  and  not  altogether  because  it 
washes  out  and  cleanses  the  filthy 
streets  of  Rome,  but  it  somehow 
seems  to  purify  the  atmosphere  in  and 
around  Rome,  and  everywhere  up 
and  down  the  Tiber. 

The   Roman  fever,    after  the  first 
attack,  is  nothing  more  or  less  than 
the  fever  and  ague  of  the  Mississippi 
valley,  and  the  mud  lakes  near  Mexico  City. 
A  man  who  has  had  the  ague  in  the  United 
States  or  Mexico   is  very  likely  to   take   this 
fever  in  Rome ;  and  when  he  does  take  it,  and 
if  he  survives  the  first  impetuous  attack  of 
the  fever,  he  will  readily  see  the  relation  between  the  two. 

Murietta  in  a  few  days  was  almost  well  again.  The  fever 
had  gone  ;  the  chill  had  left  his  bones  and  flesh  sore,  as  if  he 
had  been  oil  a  long  journey  ;  but  his  head  was  clear,  and  he 
knew  what  was  the  matter,  and  knew  perfectly  well  what 
to  do. 

One  of  the  little  countesses  carried  a  prescription  to  a 
druggist  011  the  Corso  ;  and  in  a  short  time  the  artist  had 


On  the  Pincian  Hill.  187 

beaten  his  malady,  and  in  another  week  was  beginning  to 
think  of  finding  his  way  out  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  hills  of 
Home. 

But  how  it  did  rain  !  The  narrow  streets  of  Rome  were 
one  moving  mass  of  umbrellas.  The  Tiber  came  booming  up 
through  the  streets,  and  flood  wood  came  down  from  the 
mountains  in  great  rafts.  The  river  seemed  to  be  banked  up 
from  the  sea.  In  fact  it  was  a  little  sea  of  itself. 

Murietta  had  painted  no  more.  He  could  not  or  he  would 
not  touch  his  brush  in  all  this  time  that  he  had  sat  there  in 
his  little  room  over  his  little  stove,  so  like  an  open  pickle- 
jar,  and  all  the  time  mistaking  the  pretty  sisters  one  for  the 
other,  and  all  the  time  telling  one  part  of  a  story  to  this  one 
and  then  a  bit  of  it  to  this  other,  and  so  on,  till  they  really 
thought  his  mind  was  out  of  joint. 

The  artist  had  but  one  conception  in  his  mind.  He  could 
think  of  but  one  thing.  Even  here  in  eternal  Rome,  with 
the  flower  of  his  art  before  him,  the  best  results  of  all  the 
last  five  centuries,  he  saw  nothing  but  this  one  face.  He 
would  not  paint  that  any  more. 

Back  behind  the  door,  with  a  shawl  thrown  over  it  by  the 
thoughtful  and  gentle  sisters,  stood  his  easel.  There  was  one 
picture  there, — the  picture  of  Annette,  the  one  fair  woman, 
with  a  dagger  driven  to  the  hilt  in  her  heart. 

The  sunshine  follows  the  rain,  in  fact  as  well  as  in  poetry. 
How  terribly  tired  Murietta  had  grown  of  playing  the  hermit ! 
He  had  hidden  away  determined  to  let  the  world  go  on  the 
other  side,  go  on  its  own  way  without  him,  and  let  him  alone. 

It  was  a  little  humiliating  to  this  man's  vanity  to  find  that 
the  world  did  go  on,  and  go  on  just  about  as  well  without 
him  as  with  him.  In  fact,  he  found  he  was  not  missed  at  all. 
He  began  to  see  that  this  would  be  the  final  end  of  the  story  ; 
that  men  come  and  go,  and  the  busy  world  would  not  trouble 
its  head  at  all  about  this  man's  loves,  or  that  man's  losses,  or 
anything  of  the  kind. 


1 88  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

The  artist  began  to  want  to  see  the  world  once  more.  The 
sun  came  out  one  clay  in  mid-winter,  as  only  an  Italian  sun 
can — came  out  after  a  long  long  winter  rain ;  and  the  hermit 
left  the  shadow  of  the  Tarpeian  Rock,  to  see  the  gay  gather 
ing  of  people  on  the  Pincian  Hill.  Under  the  north  side  of 
the  Capitoline  Hill,  down  the  Corso,  up  the  Via  Condotti,  to 
the  Spanish  Square,  and  then  lip  the  grand,  wide,  tufa  Span 
ish  steps,  the  artist  took  his  way,  glad  again  to  see  the  faces 
of  men  from  the  strong  new  West. 

He  went  close  up  to  the  house  standing  at  the  base  of  the 
steps  to  the  right,  and  lifted  his  hat  as  he  looked  in  through 
the  window  where  the  last  sunlight  fell  on  the  face  of  the  boy- 
poet,  Keats  ;  and  he  said  as  he  passed  on  : 

"  He  is  gathered  to  the  kings  of  thought." 

The  sun  was  spilling  all  over  the  hundreds  of  wide,  high, 
splendid  Spanish  steps,  and  people  were  sunning  themselves 
here  in  long  rows  by  the  dozen. 

Further  up  the  steps,  on  a  little  flat,  peasants  were  playing 
their  reed  pipes  and  the  tambourine,  and  men  .in  long  hair 
and  short  breeches  with  little  dirk  knives  just  visible  between 
the  waists  of  their  goatskin  coats,  were  dancing  wildly  as  the 
wind  with  pretty  peasant  girls  in  very  short  dresses,  and  lit 
tle  tunics  and  bodices,  and  striped  and  tattered  shawls  thrown 
loose  over  the  arm  and  flying  in  the  air  as  they  danced. 

Never  is  an  Italian  half  so  lively  as  when  at  the  dance. 
You  employ  any  peasant  to  do  you  service,  and  watch  his 
movements.  You  will  come  to  think  him  the  dullest,  stupid 
est,  slowest,  creature  that  ever  has  been  born.  See  him  dance, 
and  you  will  think  him  about  the  liveliest. 

A  beautiful  scene  was  this.  They  were  dancing  their  old 
Saturnalia.  This  was  the  dance  that  these  people  had  danced 
under  the  cork  trees  on  the  Sabine  Hills  for  thousands  and 
thousands  of  years.  And  here  in  Rome  it  stood  apart  by 
itself.  There  was  nothing  like  it.  There  can  be  no  music 


On  the  Pincian  Hill.  189 

like  this.  Nothing  can  imitate  or  approach  it.  No  one  takes 
part  in  these  dances  but  these  peasants  from  the  Campagna, 
and  they  all  gather  around  on  these  occasions.  They  stand 
huddled  in  a  close  ring,  with  the  dancers  in  the  centre.  The 
dance  goes  on  for  hours  and  hours.  As  soon  as  one  man 
tires  he  falls  back  exhausted  into  the  arms  of  his  friends,  and 
another  takes  his  place.  The  women  can  endure  more  of  this 
than  the  men,  but  they  too  fall  back  exhausted,  and  then 
another  steps  out  into  the  ring,  dancing  as  she  enters  ;  and 
unless  you  are  very  quick  in  your  observation,  you  will  not 
see  the  change  of  dancers  at  all. 

This  is  a  dance  with  a  meaning.  It  is  a  sort  of  invocation 
and  thanksgiving  to  Saturn.  It  is  said  that  the  Carnival 
was  introduced  by  the  popes  in  the  hope  of  displacing  and 
rooting  out  this  relic  of  heathen  custom,  but  in  vain. 

Up  these  steps  to  another  level,  and  there  in  the  sun  sat 
a  row  of  beggars  engaged  in  gambling,  and  all  too  intent  on 
their  game  to  even  reach  out  a  hand  to  the  artist  as  he  passed, 
and  climbed  fairly  to  the  top,  and  stood  under  the  obelisk 
before  the  church  where  sleeps  poor  Claude  Lorraine. 

Here  the  carriages  went  whirling  by  under  the  barren  oak 
and  elm  trees  on  their  way  to  the  great  little  drive  on  the 
Pincian  Hill.  The  Spanish  steps  away  up  here  at  the  top, 
with  all  Home  beneath  them,  had  blossomed  all  along  the 
upper  rows  and  bastions  with  the  most  beautiful  women  ot 
the  lower  orders  in  Southern  Italy. 

These  women  are  ranked  under  the  general  and  not  very 
comprehensive  name  of  models.  Such  eyes  are  not  to  be  met 
with  anywhere  in  the  world  outside  of  Rome  !  Such  wild 
blown  hair  about  the  brows  and  shoulders  !  Teeth,  such 
teeth  !  And  lips  !  only  made  to  love,  and  laugh,  and  show  such. 
pretty,  perfect  teeth. 

O  Home !  for  all  the  bloody  stories  you  have  given  us, 
for  all  the  crimes  with  which  you  cursed  the  world  when  you 
were  Home,  we  hold  you  hardly  guilty  when  we  see  what 


190  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

beautiful  women  you  have  brought  us  from  out  the  world 
that  was. 

On  to  the  left,  between  the  leafless  avenues  of  elms,  with  a 
high  wall  to  your  right,  and  all  old  Rome  away  down  below 
you,  and  a  part  of  new  Rome  immediately  under  you,  and 
you  come  to  a  very  little  fountain  playing  in  a  very  large 
broad  basin,  beneath  an  old  gnarled  and  knotted  tree,  with 
its  ancient  limbs  reaching  down  as  if  they  were  tired  and 
would  like  to  come  to  the  ground,  and  lie  there  with  the  pea 
sants  at  its  roots,  and  rest  and  rest. 

You  pass  through  a  great  iron  gate,  up  a  pleasant  side-walk 
with  carriages  whirling  by  you  all  the  time,  and  music  play 
ing  on  every  hand,  and  cactus  growing  on  the  walls,  as  if  you 
were  in  Mexico  ;  and  then  you  stand  on  the  Pincian  Hill,  with 
its  forests  of  flowers,  its  fountains,  its  hundreds  of  master 
pieces  in  marble,  its  banks  of  winter  roses,  its  black  firs  and 
forests  of  great  evergreens  brought  from  the  farthest  borders 
of  the  world  to  beautify  and  make  attractive  this  most  deli 
cious  spot  in  all  Italy. 

Then  all  around  the  edge  of  this,  between  the  avenues  of 
ti-ees,  is  the  drive.  To  the  left  there,  as  you  drive  between 
the  trees  and  the  rows  of  beautiful  statues,  you  are  above  the 
wall  of  Rome.  The  wall  is  beneath  you.  If  you  leave  your 
carriage  and  walk  for  ten  paces  to  the  left  in  one  of  the  plea 
sant  paths  between  the  trees  and  by  the  flower-beds  of 
beautiful  colors,  you  will  come  to  a  little  abutment  reaching 
almost  to  your  breast.  Lean  and  look  over.  You  will  see 
that  this  portion  of  the  wall  of  Rome  is  nearly  sixty  feet  in 
height. 

Below  you  is  the  Borghese,  the  great  drive  of  Rome,  where 
men  also  ride,  and  lovers  find  seclusion  in  the  paths  leading 
from  fountain  to  fountain  through  the  dense  wood  that  masses 
below  you,  as  you  stand  on  the  Pincian  hill. 

You  return  to  your  carriage  and  drive  on  around,  by 
flower-beds,  by  fountains,  by  beautiful  figures  in  marble,  and 


On  the  Pincian  Hill.  191 

under  fragrant'  and  dark  sweeping  trees,  and  in  a  little  time 
you  are  back  to  the  place  where  you  first  entered,  and  in  a 
perfect  jam  of  carriages,  with  a  dozen  very  handsome  and 
very  polite  and  very  helpless  and  inefficient  officers,  trying 
hard  to  keep  the  way  open  and  to  please  every  foreigner  who 
has  come  to  enjoy  the  Carnival  in  their  beautiful  city. 

Here  is  a  wide,  level  place  above  the  great  wall.  Room 
enough  for  a  hundred  carnages  to  come  abreast.  Here  the)) 
make  a  diversion ;  and  lines  and  lines  of  carriages  are  drawn 
up  in  rank,  for  under  that  great  big  palm  tree  that  King 
Someone  sent  to  Pope  Somebody  is  the  splendid  military 
band  that  plays  here  every  day  just  before  sundown  for  the 
people. 

They  are  slow  to  begin.  The  Italian  has  always  and  for 
ever  to  make  a  speech  before  he  begins  even  the  most  tri 
fling  task. 

You  have  a  minute  to  spare.  Come  close  to  the  wall  and 
look  down  over  Rome  to  the  west.  Here  under  you  are  foun 
tains.  All  along  the  steep  hill  side  below  you  see  one  un 
broken  bed  of  beautiful  flowers,  in  every  colour  of  the  rain 
bow.  Even  under  the  trees  the  flowers  grow  in  Italy. 

Down  there,  away  down  over  and  across  the  beds  of 
flowers  and  beyond  the  trees  and  across  the  many  turns  ot 
the  road  that  leads  up  here  from  another  gate  by  the  way  of 
the  Piazza  del  Popolo,  you  see  gray  granite  columns  bristling 
with  prows  of  ships.  The  tradition  is  that  these  were  set 
here  to  commemorate  the  victory  over  Antony  and  Cleo 
patra. 

Fountains  and  flowers,  and  flowers  and  fountains  !  That 
is  Rome ! 

This,  just  beyond  the  granite  columns  and  just  beneath  you 
as  it  were,  is  the  great  Piazza  del  Popolo.  There  is  an  im 
mense  fountain  in  the  centre  of  it  with  great  big  blue  lions, 
and  there  are  boys  riding  the  stone  lions,  as  they  spout  water, 
with  strings  in  their  mouths  for  bridles. 


192  The  One  Fair   Woman. 

There  are  a  hundred  carriages  in  the  piazza  and  a  thousand 
people.  But  the  people  do  not  look  much  taller  than  a  span. 

In  the  centre  of  this  piazza  by  the  fountain  is  the  oldest 
obelisk  in  Rome.  That  obelisk  was  chiselled,  and  had  the 
inscription  it  holds  up  there  to  all  the  world,  long  before 
Moses  led  the  children  of  Israel  out  of  Egypt. 

Tradition  locates  the  tomb  of  Nero  on  this  very  spot.  Yet 
there  is  another  so-called  tomb  of  Nero  away  over  yonder,  five 
miles  beyond  the  Tiber. 

This  obelisk  was  placed  here  on  account  of  a  dream  which 
one  of  the  popes  had  concerning  the  old  tomb  which  stood 
here,  bearing  the  name  of  Nero.  Out  of  and  around  and 
over  this  tomb  had  grown  a  little  forest  of  trees.  These 
trees  had  grown  to  an  immense  size.  The  rooks  had  been 
roosting  in  them  for  centuries. 

It  was  a  bad  year  in  Home.  Then  the  pope  dreamed  that 
all  these  rooks  roosting  in  these  trees  above  the  tomb  of  Nero, 
were  evil  spirits  brooding  over  the  city.  He  had  the  trees 
cut  down,  the  tomb  levelled,  this  obelisk  placed  there ;  and 
now  you  see  nothing  but  the  naked  stones,  and  obelisk,  and 
fountains. 

And  the  story  is  that  there  is  the  portion  of  a  man's  body 
beneath  this  obelisk  too  ;  that  when  they  were  placing  it  there 
and  settling  it  to  its  place,  a  man  got  caught  beneath  it,  and 
a  part  of  his  body  remains  still  beneath  the  obelisk — buried 
perhaps  with  the  Emperor  Nero  ! 

But  hark  !  the  music  begins. 

Softly  it  swells,  sways,  falls,  rises  again,  loud,  louder, 
long  ! — now  light  and  faint  and  far  away,  sweet  as  kisses  in 
a  dream. 

Classic  song  in  a  classic  land.  You  may  almost  see  the 
satyrs  dance  below  the  chestnut  trees.  You  picture  the  great 
god  Pan  sitting  by  the  waters  of  the  Tiber,  piping  in  his  reed, 
and  puffing  his  cheeks,  and  tapping  the  time  on  the  sand  with 
his  hoof. 


On  the  Pincian  Hill.  193 

And  these  pretty  players  here,  these  handsome  Italian 
musicians,  with  hands  and  waists  like  women — these  soldiers, 
too,  with  painted  and  powdered  faces — these  men  wearing 
stays  to  make  them  seem  more  beautiful,  know  perfectly  well 
what  awe  and  what  interest  envelops  them.  They  are  play 
ing  under  the  prestige  of  the  whole  world's  history,  from  the 
days  of  the  she-wolf  up  to  the  hour  when  their  king  came 
down  from  the  north  and  sat  down  on  his  throne  in  Rome. 

These  players  know  that  the  beautiful  blonde  barbarians  of 
England,  and  that  farther  and  still  more  barbarous  country, 
are  listening  and  looking  on  and  thinking  of  the  time  when 
Caesar  entered  yonder  gate  of  Rome  to  reign,  and  when  St. 
Paul  passed  out  through  yonder  gate  to  die. 

Higher  and  higher  the  melody  mounts  up.  They  are  play 
ing  a  martial  air.  The  very  horses  prance  in  their  harness. 
The  officers  come  closer  around,  sabres  rattle  on  the  sand,  the 
beautiful  blondes  lean  from  their  carriages  and  listen,  or  seem 
to  listen,  while  they  do  not  at  all  seem  to  see  the  bold  and 
adventurous  eyes  that  watch  them  from  every  quarter  of  the 
garden. 

Higher  and  higher  the  music  swells.  You  can  hear  the 
rustle  of  the  palm  leaves — it  is  so  still.  The  boughs  of  the 
ever  green  oak  quake,  tremble,  quiver  and  dance  as  if  with 
delight.  The  great  palm  tree  that  King  Somebody  presented 
to  Pope  Someone  reaches  out  his  great  hands  as  if  to  say} 
Bless  you,  my  sunny  Italian  singers  ! 

Higher  and  higher,  louder  and  louder,  and  at  last  the 
horses  fairly  plunge  in  their  harness — the  air,  the  heavens, 
are  filled  with  this  long  last  ntfte. 

It  dies  away  ;  the  horses  plunge  a-head  ;  and  the  carriages 
are  again  whirling  around  on  the  rim  of  this  last,  save  the 
Aventine,  of  the  Seven  Hills  of  Rome. 
9 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


A   RAILROAD    KING   IN   ROME. 

URIETTA    had    thrown   back 
his     great    Italian    cloak,    in 
which  he  was  nearly  enveloped, 
pushed   back   the    broad-brim 
med  artist's  hat  from  his  brow, 
brushed  the   long  yellow  hair 
with  a  sweep  of  the  hand  back 
over   his     shoulders,   and  was 
standing  there  flushed  in  the 
face  with  excitement,  and  de 
lighted  with  the  scene.     It  was 
the  first  time  for  many  a  day  that  he 
had  even  touched  the  outer  edge  of  the 
fairer  world,  and  his  soul  was  hungry, 
was  starving  for  beauty,  sympathy,  song, 
and  all  the  better  things  of  life  that  go 
to  make  it  tolerable. 

"  O  pa  !  pa  !  there  stands  the  living  likeness  of  dear  Mu- 
rietta  !  " 

The  old  general  put  up  his  glasses,  looked  and  looked,  and 
even  turned  in  his  seat,  as  the  carriage  spun  on  around  in  the 
great  little  drive  on  the  Pincian  Hill,  and  still  looked  back 
over  his  shoulder.  And  then  Mollie  half  stood  up  in  the  car- 


A  Railroad  King  in  Rome.  195 

riage,  and  waved  her  parasol  and  shouted  in  the  hope  of 
catching  the  eye  of  this  living  likeness ;  and  then  she  stretched 
her  neck  as  the  carriage  spun  on  around  and  rose  up  again ; 
and  half  a  dozen  gallant  Italians  sprang  forward  to  save  her 
to  rescue  her,  to  restore  her  to  her  parents — for  themselves 
— in  case  she  should  fall ;  but  still  the  artist  did  not  see  the 
railroad  king  or  his  daughter,  and  he  only  gathered  his  cloak 
closer  about  him  and  moved  a  little  way  forward  and  nearer 
to  the  line  of  passing  carriages. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  parasol  poked  in  his  face  from  a  car 
riage  that  was  whirling  by,  as  if  he  had  been  an  enemy  en 
trenched  on  the  Pincian  Hill,  and  this  armed  Amazon  had 
come  in  a  chariot  to  drive  him  from  the  battlements  in  a 
sort  of  charge  of  bayonets. 

Murietta  started  back.  The  armed  Amazon  poked  the 
footman  in  the  back  with  her  parasol ;  the  footman  poked  the 
coachman  in  the  ribs  with  his  elbow ;  the  coachman  pulled 
his  reins,  and  the  carriage  spun  out  of  line  and  rested  by  the 
parapet  overlooking  the  great  Piazza  del  Popolo. 

"  You  bet  it's  him  !     I  know  him  by  his  back  !  " 

The  general  again  put  up  his  glasses,  and  protested  that  she 
was  mistaken. 

"  Don't  you  think  I  know  sardines  ?  " 

Again  the  bright-faced  Californian  girl  poked  the  footman 
in  the  back,  and  this  time  pointed  with  her  parasol  a  turn  to 
the  left.  The  footman  poked  the  coachman,  and  the  coach 
man  made  a  sharp  turn,  while  two  handsome  officers  stood  at 
the  head  of  the  horses  to  see  that  no  accident  happened  ;  and 
it  seemed  half  the  officers  of  the  Italian  army  crowded  about 
as  a  body-guard  to  Mollie  Wopsus. 

"  Booh  !  "  cried  the  lively  and  light-hearted  Mollie  as  she 
thrust  out  with  her  bayonet  and  poked  the  pensive  artist  in 
the  back  with  the  point  of  it. 

The  officers  sprang  forward  in  a  platoon  to  catch  the  lively 
little  Amazon  in  case  she  should  spill  from  the  carriage  j  but 


196  T/ie  One  Fair    Woman. 

she  brushed  them  aside  with  her  bayonet  and  shouted  aloud 
to  the  artist,  who  was  just  now  turning  about  to  see  what  it 
all  meant. 

"  Oh  my  eye  !  Don't  look  this  way  !  don't  !  Don't  know 
a  body,  do  you  ?"  She  put  up  her  hands,  parasol  and  all, 
and  laughed  and  pretended  to  try  to  hide  her  face  ;  and  then 
she  reached  out  and  put  her  arms  about  the  artist's  neck  and 
pulled  him  in  towards  the  carriage,  and  pushed  and  leaned  and 
reached  till  all  the  army  of  polite  officers  came  up  again  to  the 
rescue,  and  stood  there  expecting  every  moment  to  see  her 
spill  herself  to  the  ground. 

"  Well  now,  you  are  the  worst !  And  when  did  you  come? 
and  where  do  you  go?  and  where  are  you  now?  and  where 
will  you  be  ?  and  how  have  you  been  ?  " 

The  Californian  girl  paused  for  breath,  as  the  artist  shook 
General  Wopsns  by  the  hand  in  that  easy  and  careless  way 
of  the  West  which  showed  that  the  two  men  were  at  least  old 
campaigners,  if  not  old  friends.  At  length  Miss  Mollie  took 
hold  of  the  artist's  cloak,  and,  drawing  him  closer  to  her  face 
and  leaning  her  head  towards  him,  she  said  in  a  sort  of  shrill 
whisper : 

"  Do  you  see  those  fellows  in  buttons  ?  All  these  here  ? 
Thick  enough  to  stir  'em  with  a  stick,  aren't  they?  And 
here  she  made  a  movement  with  her  parasol  as  if  she  was 
stirring  them  up  very  lively.  "  Well,  them's  my  lovers  ! 
All  them  my  lovers  ;  just  think  of  it !  And  look  here  !"  she 
bent  her  head  again  towards  the  artist,  "  What  do  you  think  ? 
The're  princes  and  counts  and  marquises  and  dukes  and 
barons  and  earls,  and  everything  !  besides  being  officers,  you 
see  ?  You  bet  you  !  "  She  turned  her  head,  held  out  her 
parasol  sociably,  as  if  to  receive  on  the  point  of  it  a  bold 
officer  who  looked  as  if  he  was  about  to  make  a  charge  upon 
the  carriage,  and  continued : 

"  Yes — and  I  am  going  to  Court  too  !  And  I'm  going  with 
a  prince  !  Bet  your  life  !  a  prince — a  real  live  prince  !  What 


A  Railroad  King  in  Rome.  197 

•would  they  say  to  Mollie  Wopsus  now,  I  wonder,  in  Mexico 
or  California,  eh  ?  " 

The  lively  little  Mollie  thurst  out  her  parasol  in  the  direc 
tion  in  which  she  supposed  Mexico  and  California  to  be,  as 
if  she  would  run  them  through  for  some  old  slight  or 
another ;  and  then  again  dropping  her  head  to  the  artist 
whispered  in  a  high  pitched  key. 

"And  I've  got  a  real  lover  too,  Mr.  Murietta,  a  count  and 
an  officer,  with  the  brightest  sword  and  epaulettes,  and  belts 
and  buttons  and  things  !  And  oh  !  Papa  won't  let  us  get 
married,  you  know,  at  all,  because  he  has  not  yet  come  into 
possession  of  his  castle, — an  old,  old  uncle,  you  know,  who 
keeps  living  on  and  living  on  and  living  on,  just  for  spite  you 
know.  And  then,"  and  here  the  little  head  fell  pathetically 
to  one  side  and  the  lively  girl  grew  very  serious  and  sentimental, 
"  and  then  he's  so  mean  to  Count  Paolini,  don't  you  know  ? 
and  the  count  being  a  gentleman  can't  at  all  get  on  with  his 
pay,  for  it  is  not  enough  for  a  gentleman  to  live  upon.  And 
so,  you  see — "  she  looked  slyly  up  and  out  to  one  side  to  see 
if  Pa  was  listening — "  and  so  you  see  I  divide  with  him,  I 
do  !  Oh,  it's  so  nice !  Better  than  a  novel,  ain't  it  ?  " 

Murietta  smiled ;  and  the  full-hearted  artless,  happy  girl 
went  on — 

"  And  oh,  don't  you  like  Rome  ?  And  oh,  ain't  it  such 
a  nice  place  to  buy  jewelry  ?  And  then,  such  handsome 
men  you  know  !  and  they  are  so  polite,  and  then  only  to 
think — only  to  be  surrounded  all  the  time  by  dukes  and 
princes,  and  counts  and  barons!  I  declare,  Mr.  Murietta, 
I'm  ashamed,  heartily  ashamed,  of  being  only  a  general's 
daughter." 

"  Ah,  but,  Miss  Wopsus,  when  you  marry  the  count,  that 
will  be  changed,  you  know  !  " 

"  When  I  do  !  Yes,  yes,  indeed  it  will,  and  the  sooner  the 
quicker,  say  I !  You  see  this  don't  last  always.  I  know 
whole  stacks  of  American  girls  who  are  coming  over  here  next 


198  The  One  Fair   Woman. 

year — and  this  tiling  won't  keep,  you  know  !  These  dukes 
and  counts  and  barons  and  marquises  will  all  be  married,  you 
know.  And  then  what  will  become  of  Mollie  Wopsus  ? " 
She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands  and  slowly  shook  her 
head.  "  O  if  I  don't  get  Count  Paolini  I  shall  die  !  I  shall 
die,  and  be  buried  in  the  cold,  cold  ground,  and — 

Here  the  music  struck  up  to  its  highest  and  final  note ; 
and  the  horses  began  to  plunge  and  prance,  and  the  carriage 
began  to  move.  Mollie  kissed  her  hand  as  the  general 
reached  his,  to  Murietta. 

"  Yes,  I  shall  die,  shall  die — And  oh  !  you  must  dine 
with  us  to-day,  and  I  declare  I  am  real  hungry  at  the  thought 
of  dinner  !  How  a  fellow  can  eat  in  Rome  !  and — " 

The  carriage  was  whirled  away,  and  the  pleasant  words  of 
the  light-hearted  and  honest  Californian  girl  were  spilled 
down  in  the  tumult,  and  trodden  under  the  feet  of  the  plung 
ing  and  prancing  horses,  and  lost. 

Murietta's  heart  was  made  lighter  by  this  young  woman 
whom  he  had  met  before  in  the  far  West,  and  gathering  his 
cloak  about  him  he  was  sauntering  away  with  his  eyes  turned 
to  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's  away  across  the  northern  edge  of 
Rome  and  beyond  the  Tiber. 

As  he  reached  the  edge  of  the  crowd  a  heavy  hand  fell 
upon  his  shoulder.  He  turned,  and  the  hand  was  reached  in 
token  of  friendship. 

"  I.  am  rough  but  honest,  a  man  who  carries  his  heai't  in 
his  hand.  Shake  hands,  1  am  a  man  of  the  world ;  you  are 
an  artist.  You  dream,  I  work.  Come,  we  can  be  of  use  to 
each  other  as  friends.  We  can  destroy  each  other  as  ene 
mies.  Let  us  be  wise.  It  is  best  to  be  friends." 

His  hand  was  reached  out.  Murietta  drew  back  and 
wrapped  his  cloak  closer  about  him. 

"  What  if  I  prefer  to  be  enemies  ?  " 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  just  what  I  was  saying  !  You  are  a  dreamer  ! 
Well,  there  is  no  occasion  for  being  enemies,  none  in  the 


A  Railroad  King  in  Rome.  199 

least ;  and,  in  fact,  there  is  but  little  occasion  for  being 
friends.  I  only  want  to  ask  you  a  question  or  two  about  a 
certain  young  lady  with  whom  I  just  now  saw  you  conversing 
in  a  most  friendly  manner." 

The  Admiral  took  out  a  large  note-book  from  his  breast 
pocket,  and  began  to  scan  a  list  of  names,  with  figures,  dates, 
addresses,  and  the  like,  set  opposite  them.  He  stopped 
reading  a  moment,  tapped  the  leather  note-book  with  his 
fingers  as  if  it  had  been  a  kind  of  instrument  on  which  he 
was  about  to  play  a  tune,  and  then,  stepping  closer  to  the 
side  of  the  artist,  and  looking  carefully  about  to  see  that  no 
one  was  listening,  went  on — 

"  I  am  a  blunt  and  open-hearted  man,  a  rough  but  honest 
sailor — rAh  !  you  smile  at  this  !  But  if  you  come  to  know 
me,  you  will  say  at  last,  ay  !  you  will  inscribe  it  upon  my 
tombstone,  '  The  admiral  was  a  rough  but  an  honest  man.' 
Well,  as  I  was  saying,"  here  the  fingers  played  up  and  down 
the  back  of  the  leather  note-book,  as  if  they  were  about  to 
begin  the  tune,  "  as  I  was  saying,  I  am  a  blunt,  honest  man, 
and  if  I  tell  you  why  I  want  to  know  these  things,  and  you 
see  nothing  wrong  in  it,  will  you  not  tell  me  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes,"  said  the  artist,  half  sullenly,  and  gathering 
his  cloak  still  closer  up  under  his  chin. 

"  Then  I  proceed  to  explain."  The  fingers  again  played 
a  tattoo  up  and  down  the  back  of  the  leather  note-book,  and 
the  Admiral,  looking  again  over  his  shoulder  to  be  doubly 
sure  that  no  one  was  listening,  went  on, — 

"  In  the  first  place  you,  you,  Murietta,  ought  to  belong  to 
our  Society,  the  Brothers  of  the  Altar.  You  have  a  repu. 
tation.  Well,  reputation  is  money.  Fame  is  money.  Title 
is  money.  The  name  of  a  count  is  worth  so  much  in  market. 
A  duke  so  much.  A  marquis  so  much.  A  general  so  much, 
and  so  on.  Well,  the  name  of  an  illustrious  painter  is  worth 
— let  me  see  ! " — the  fingers  again  ran  up  and  down  the 
imaginary  keys  on  the  back  of  the  leather  note -book — "  is 


2OO  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

worth,  say — well !  say  a  quarter  of  a  million  of  francs  at 
least." 

Murietta  loosened  his  cloak  a  little  from  under  his  chin 
and  relaxed  his  features.  He  was  getting  interested  to  know 
what  this  mysterious,  half-hideous  man  was  aiming  at. 

"You  follow  me?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  are  interested,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  you  are  poor  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  if  that  is  any  of  your  business." 

"  No  offence — no  offence.  I  am  a  blunt  but  honest  man, 
and  only  want  to  feel  my  way  across  the  ground  as  I  pro 
ceed."  The  fingers  again  tapped  and  danced  along  the  back 
of  the  note-book.  "  Now  we  come  to  the  pith  of  the  ques 
tion.  Thousands  of  young  ladies  pour  into  this  country 
every  year  from  America,  and  also  from  England.  They  are 
the  cream  of  their  respective  countries,  and,  particularly  from 
America,  are  the  wealthiest  and  best  in  the  land.  Of  course 
they  are  vulgar,  very  loud  and  very  vulgar,  but  then  they  are 
also  very  rich.  Well,  you  follow  me  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  Good.  These  girls,  vulgar  but  rich,  come  here  in  nine 
cases  out  of  ten  to  get  married.  That  is  their  business. 
They  have  no  other.  Particularly  those  from  America  are 
here  for  that  purpose,  and  that  purpose  alone.  They  know 
nothing  about  art ;  they  care  less.  They  would  give  more  to 
look  upon  the  face  of  a  single  member  of  a  royal  family  than 
to  see  all  the  works  of  Michael  Angelo  or  Da  Vinci." 

"  Well,  suppose  what  you  say  is  the  truth,  what  of  it  ?  " 

Murietta  was  again  gathering  up  his  cloak  and  contracting 
his  brows  at  this  open  insult  to  the  best  woman  in  the  world. 

"  That  is  it,  that  is  it.  Now  we  come  to  the  point."  He 
again  tapped  and  tattooed  on  the  back  of  the  note-book. 
"Put  this  and  that  together,  and  you  will  understand. 


A  Railroad  King  in  Rome.  201 

These  girls,  these  vulgar  but  wealthy  women  from  the  West, 
are  here  to  get  husbands.  Shall  they  be  disappointed  ?  No. 
A  gallant  man  will  not  willingly  see  a  lady  disappointed.  I 
am  a  gallant  man.  I  have  set  my  heart  to  assist  them  in 
this  matter.  I  go  about  doing  good  in  silence.  They  do 
not  know,  do  not  dream,  how  I  am  assisting  them  in  their 
efforts  to  get  what  they  have  crossed  the  seas  to  obtain." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you  at  all." 

"  Look  here !  read  these  names.  I  am  a  blunt  and  an 
honest  man — a  man  who  carries  his  heart  in  his  hand.  I 
have  nothing  whatever  to  conceal.  Read  these." 

The  admiral  handed  the  book  to  the  artist,  and  struck  an 
attitude  before  him  as  if  he  would  sit  for  the  personification 
of  simple  innocence. 

Murietta  glanced  down  a  long  list  of  names,  with  addresses, 
dates,  and  figures  opposite  them. 

"  There !  "  The  admiral  pointed  to  the  name  of  Mollie 
Wopsus.  "  There  !  Now  what  sum  shall  we  set  opposite  ? 
In  other  words,  AVhat  is  she  worth  ?  She  comes  here  to  be 
married,  like  the  others.  She,  like  the  others,  wants  a  title. 
Very  well.  These  titled  gentlemen  are  my  friends.  They 
are  not  to  be  imposed  upon.  Now,  sir,  she  wants  a  title. 
She  is  easily  caught ;  too  easily — we  are  afraid  of  her.  We 
cannot  find  out  what  she  is  worth.  She  comes  from  too 
remote  a  qtiarter.  We  have  agents  in  New  York,  in  Boston, 
in  Chicago,  who  keep  us  informed  here,  and  also  in  Paris  and 
in  all  great  cities  of  the  Continent,  and  we  know  oftentimes 
better  than  the  father  himself  knows,  what  his  daughter  is 
worth.  But  here,  sir,  we  are  in  a  dilemma.  Now  you  know 
this  young  lady.  You  not  only  know  what  she  is  worth,  but, 
should  she  prove  to  be  wealthy,  you  can  materially  assist 
her — assist  her,  mark  you,  in  a  most  gallant  and  disinterested 
way,  to  procure  a  husband.  There  !  there  !  pardon  me,"  said 
the  old  admiral,  catching  his  breath  and  reaching  out  and  tak 
ing  his  book,  and  again  tapping  the  tattoo  on  its  back. 
9* 


2O2  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,  but  I  hope  I  have  now  proved  to  you  that 
I  have  no  secrets  at  all  in  this  matter  from  gentlemen, 
from  gentlemen,  mark  you.  And  now,  sir,  what  sum  shall  we 
set  against  the  name  of  the  vivacious  Miss  Mollie  Wopsus  ?  " 

"  Let  me  look  at  that  book  again." 

The  artist  reached  his  hand  with  an  air  of  authority.  He 
turned  a  leaf,  looked  up  and  down  the  lines  of  names  there, 
and  read  that  of  Annette. 

He  threw  the  book  in  the  man's  face,  and  stepping  back, 
loosened  his  cloak  as  if  to  strike,  if  followed,  after  the  fashion 
of  his  country.  The  admiral  picked  up  his  note-book  and 
smiled. 

"  I  have  a  mind  to  tumble  you  over  that  parapet." 

"  Just  as  I  was  saying — just  as  I  remarked  before  !  "  and 
the  fingers  tattooed  again  up  and  down  the  note-book.  "  You 
are  a  dreamer.  You  do  nothing  but  dream.  Do  you  sup 
pose  I  like  this  business  better  than  you  do  ?  No.  A  man 
must  eat.  A  gentleman  must  have  money.  Come.  The 
lady  wants  a  title.  Is  she  able  to  pay  for  it  ?  " 

"  You  gray-headed  old  villain !  What  if  I  should  tell 
this  to  the  world  ?  " 

"  Tell  it  ?  tell  it  ?  There  is  nothing  to  tell.  This  which 
we  do  is  no  secret.  Every  gentleman  in  Paris,  every  gentle 
man  in  Germany,  every  gentleman  in  Italy — that  is,  gentle 
men  who  are  unfortunate  enough  to  be  without  fortune — 
belongs  to  our  association.  We  are  a  society.  We  are  a 
band  of  brothers.  We  are  more  than  a  thousand  strong. 
When  one  marriage  is  consummated  and  a  fortune  secured, 
that  fortune  must  go  in  part  to  the  general  fund  for  the  pur 
chase  of  clothes,  jewels,  crests,  and  other  things  necessary  to 
catch  the  eye  of  the  ladies  from  out  your  West.  Tell  it !  ha, 
ha  !  "  The  fingers  again  ran  up  and  down  the  leather  keys. 
"  Why,  do  you  see  those  gentlemen  walking  up  and  down 
there  before  the  lines  of  carriages  ?  Well,  those  gentlemen 
all  have  a  list  like  this.  These  same  names,  dates,  figures, 


A  Railroad  King  in  Rome.          203 

are  down  in  their  books  just  as  in  my  own.  We  are  hesitat 
ing  about  this  one  name.  Tell  it  ?  ha,  ha !  The  Italian 
dagger  still  retains  its  point.  Tell  it  !  Bah  !  These  thou 
sand  gentlemen  forming  one  association  know  it  already,  and 
as  for  the  world,  it  will  not  believe  you  ;  besides,  you  would 
hardly  live  to  tell  it  twice  ;  and  the  fingers  again  tapped  the 
book.  "  Come,  I  have  been  blunt,  but  honest.  Just  as  I  told 
you,  you  will  find  me  to  the  end.  I  am  a  practical  man.  I 
am  an  old  man,  too.  I  know  perfectly  well  what  I  am  about, 
and  see  no  more  harm  in  this  trade  than  in  any  other  transac 
tion  in  commerce." 

He  took  off  his  glove,  drew  out  a  pencil,  raised  it  to  the 
open  book,  and  began  to  write. 

"  Come !  be  as  frank  with  me  as  I  have  been  with  you. 
What  sum  shall  we  set  opposite  to  the  name  of  the  lively 
Miss  Mollie  Wopsus  ?  " 

Murietta  seemed  to  have  a  sudden  inspiration.  He  drew 
his  cloak  closer  up  under  his  chin  and  said  through  his  teeth  : 

"  Ten  million  francs." 

The  admiral  wrote  the  figures  down  with  as  much  coolness 
as  if  he  had  been  entering  a  note  of  the  weather.  As  he 
wrote,  Murietta  noticed  that  the  ends  of  his  fingers  were 
stained  and  yellow,  as  if  burned  by  acids.  He  remained 
no  longer,  but  left  the  man  writing  in  his  leather  note-book, 
and  hastily  melted  away  in  the  crowd. 


CHAPTER  XXIY. 


THE    PINK    PRINCESS. 


URIETTA  found  his  way  home 
under  the  shadow  of  the  Tar- 
peiaii  Rock,  long  after  nightfall. 
It  was  pleasant  to  again  bathe 
in  the  sxmshine,  sweet  to  hear 
the  hearty  voices  of  the  Saxon 
from  out  the  West,  and  he  lin 
gered  late  and  long  on  the  hill. 
He  did  not  intend  to  return 
to  his  cell  on  the  side  of  the 
Capitoline  by  way  of  the  Corso  ; 
bu\,  ne  went  that  way  nevertheless  in 
spite  of  himself,  and  when  he  came  op 
posite  to  a  great  palace  not  far  from  the 
palace  of  the  Bonapartes,  he  stopped, 
looked  eagerly  in  through  the  high  por 
tals  at  the  little  forest  of  shrubs  and  flowers,  and  at  last,  lifting 
his  hat  and  kissing  his  hand,  he  passed  on  towards  his  home. 
As  he  was  turning  out  of  sight  of  this  palace,  he  paused, 
lifted  his  hat  again,  looked  long  at  the  home  of  the  woman 
he  still  loved  in  spite  of  himself,  and  then  bowing  his  head 
he  turned  away,  saying  as  he  walked  slowly  on : 

"  I  scattered  roses  in  her  path,  and  yet  she  would  not  know 
me  if  we  were  to  meet  to-day  !  " 

The  artist  slept  late,  and  rose  more  cheerful  than  the  little 
countesses  had  ever  seen  him.  He  even  whistled  a  love  tune 
as  lie  went  down  stairs  at  an  early  hour  in  the  afternoon  on 


The  Pink  Princess.  205 

his  way  to  the  gathering,  the  open  air  reception  on  the  Pin- 
cian  Hill. 

The  sun  was  brighter  than  ever.  The  whole  hill-top  blos 
somed  with  beautiful  women  from  the  four  wide  quarters  of 
the  Christian  world.  They  walked,  they  rested  in  the  sun, 
on  the  benches,  by  the  beautiful  figures  in  marble,  and  by  the 
fountains  where  white  swans  swam  in  reedy  little  lakes,  or 
drove  in  the  great  girdle  of  carriages  that  kept  whirling 
and  whirling  and  whirling  around  on  the  rim  of  the  blossom 
ing  hill. 

Mollie  Wopsus  poked  the  footman  in  the  back,  who  set 
things  in  order  to  stop  the  carriage.  Then  Mollie  reached 
her  hand  to  Marietta,  and  seemed  so  very  happy. 

This  time  there  was  a  perfect  swarm  of  gilded  butterflies 
about  this  wild  flower  from  California,  and  she  fairly  revelled 
in  her  glory. 

The  old  General  Wopsus,  too,  came  in  for  a  good  share  of 
compliment  and  flattery,  and  with  all  his  sound  railroad  sense, 
was  not  at  all  displeased  at  it. 

He  sat  back  there  before  his  daughter  as  a  sort  of  king  on 
his  throne  receiving  homage  and  bestowing  honors.  In  fact, 
he  was  in  some  sense  a  sort  of  king  even  at  home  amongst 
the  "  vulgar  "  Americans,  for  he  was  the  great  railroad  king 
of  the  West. 

His  wife,  Mrs.  General  Wopsus,  sat  beside  her  daughter, 
a  careworn  woman,  with  the  lines  of  her  husband's  railroads 
written  all  over  her  face.  A  good  woman  was  she  as  ever 
breathed,  full  of  heart  and  soul  and  sympathy  for  all  things, 
rational  and  irrational  ;  yet,  like  most  of  her  countrywomen, 
most  uncommonly  weak  on  the  subject  of  rank  and  titles. 
Besides  that,  she  was  a  woman ;  and  being  a  woman,  how 
could  she  but  be  overcome  and  almost  dazed  with  this  flood 
of  flattery  and  compliment  that  poured  in  iipon  the  little 
group  of  Wopsuses  this  morning,  as  it  was  drawn  in  a  sort  of 
triumphal  procession  around  the  hill,  followed  and  fawned 


206  The  One  Fair   Woman. 

upon  by  a  hundred  men  in  glittering  arms  and  uniforms  yel 
low  with  gold. 

"Oh,  ain't  it  jolly?"  shouted  Miss  Wopsus,  as  the  artist 
pushed  back  his  hat  and  took  her  extended  hand. 

Whatever  it  was  she  referred  to  as  being  particularly 
"jolly  "  he  did  not  know,  perhaps  she  did  not  know  herself. 
The  reasonable  thing  is  to  suppose  that  she  felt  "jolly"  on 
general  principles. 

"  Oh,  ain't  it  gay  though  !  " 

She  threw  out  her  arms,  parasol  and  all,  and  caught  the 
artist  around  the  neck  as  if  she  were  going  to  smother  him 
or  drag  him  into  the  carriage. 

The  Italians — princes,  dukes,  counts,  marquises,  and  barons 
— who  had  sprung  forward  as  she  threw  her  arms  out,  now 
saw  that  the  embrace  was  not  for  them,  and  they  fell  back  to 
a  respectful  distance,  tapped  their  sword  hilts,  smiled  pleas 
antly,  looked  at  each  other,  patted  the  sand  with  their  boots, 
and  kept  time  to  the  music,  and  watched  till  Mollie  Wopsus 
was  done  with  the  stranger. 

"  Oh,  ain't  it  delicious  living  in  foreign  lands  ?"  The 
pretty  Californian  loosened  her  arms  from  the  artist,  clasped 
her  hands,  and  setting  her  head  to  one  side,  looked  up  in  an 
ecstasy  of  delight. 

The  good  Mrs.  Wopsus  was  so  affected  that  a  little  express 
train  of  shining  tears  started  down  one  of  the  railroad  lines, 
but  collided  at  the  corner  of  one  of  the  numerous  junctions, 
and  went  all  to  pieces. 

"  But  then  you  see,  Mr.  Murietta,  they  are  not  all  foreign 
ers.  And  the  Americans  " — here  Mollie's  head  drooped  to 
one  side  again,  the  clasped  hands  went  up,  and  the  soft  gray 
eyes  went  down — "  the  Americans,  you  know,  Mr.  Murietta, 
are  so,  so  very,  very  vulgar  You  see,  Mr.  Murietta,  they 
were  not  even  educated  abroad.  O,  Count  Paolini  says,  they 
are  so,  so  vulgar  !  " 

Then  she  sighed  as  she  thought  of  Paolini,  and  her  head 


The  Pink  Princess.  207 

fell  down,  and  her  hands  went  up  and  clasped,  as  if  in  a 
sort  of  petition  to  the  railroad  king  for  her  lover  the  Count. 

Dear  spoilt  little  Mollie  Wopsus  !  She  had  been  to  school 
almost  a  year  in  Paris.  Therefore  Mollie  had  been  edu 
cated  in  Europe,  and  felt  that  she  had  a  perfect  right  to 
cut  her  American  friends — save  a  very  few  favored  ones 
like  the  famous  artist — and  she  did  cut  them  on  every  pos 
sible  occasion. 

The  music  had  again  reached  the  high  note,  and  the  leaves 
were  dancing  on  the  trees,  and  the  palm  was  reaching  his 
broad  hands  to  give  the  blessing,  and  the  horses  were  pran 
cing  and  shaking  the  harness. 

Mollie  caught  the  artist  by  the  cloak,  lifted  her  sceptre- 
like  parasol,  pulled,  and  landed  him,  with  her  father's  help, 
in  the  seat  by  the  side  of  the  king  of  railroads. 

The  horses  plunged  forward ;  the  Italian  knights  and 
noblemen  fell  back,  hat  in  hand,  at  precisely  the  same  mo 
ment,  made  precisely  the  same  low  bow  with  precisely  the 
same  gesture,  as  if  they  had  all  been  parts  of  a  sort  of 
machine  in  first-rate  working  order,  which  had  been  set  in 
motion  by  the  wheels  of  the  carriage  of  the  Wopsuses. 

"  Yes,  we  are  going  to  Court.  Pa's  going  to  Court. 
Mamma's  going  to  Court.  We  are  all  going  to  Court. 
And  we,  bet  your  life !  we  go  on  our  own  hook,  don't  we, 
pa?" 

Pa  pecked  his  head  a  little  as  if  he  had  been  a  parrot  on  a 
perch,  and  went  on  with  his  thinking. 

"  Look  here,  I'll  tell  you  something."  Mollie  reached  out, 
took  the  artist  by  the  cloak,  and  pulled  him  towards  her. 
"  You  see,"  she  went  on,  "  the  rest  of  'em  have  to  go  to  the 
American  minister.  There  they  register  in  a  book,  and  the 
minister  gets  'em  invited  to  Court.  Pshaw  !  Not  for 
Joseph ! "  She  snapped  her  fingers  in  the  air,  and  then, 
taking  up  her  parasol,  made  several  sword-thrusts  at  the 
naked  boughs  that  hung  above  the  carriage  as  it  whirled  on 


208  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

around  the  Pincian.  "  Not  much  !  We  go  cross  lots — we 
do,  don't  we,  pa  ?  " 

Pa  again  pecked  his  head  at  the  daughter,  and  kept  up  his 
thinking  about  his  gridiron  of  railroads  in  the  great  West. 
But  the  kind  mother  was  again  so  affected  by  the  happiness 
of  her  daughter  and  their  good  fortune  among  the  great 
people  of  this  foreign  land,  that  she  again  sent  a  little  express 
train  of  shining  tears  down  one  of  her  numerous  railroad 
lines,  till  it  collided  against  a  pleasant  smile  at  the  corner  of 
her  mouth. 

"  Here  they  come !  look,  here  they  come  !  Look,  here 
they  come  !  " 

Mollie  had  thrown  down  her  parasol,  and  was  now  clasp 
ing  her  chubby  hands  with  perfect  delight.  The  carriage  was 
again  rolling  up  to  the  point  where  she  had  parted  with  her 
suitors. 

True  enough,  they  were  coming  trooping  through  the  beds 
and  avenues  of  flowers,  and  winding  in  and  out  through  the 
carriages,  and  coming  up  straight  to  the  presence  of  the  rail 
road  king  and  his  daughter  with  the  ten-million  dowry. 

"  Dear,  dear !  Mr.  Marietta,  what  could  you  have  said 
about  me  yesterday?  I  declare  it  was  bad  enough  yesterday, 
but  to-day  it  is  perfectly  alarming.  And  I  tell  you,  look 
here  !  "  she  reached  and  caught  the  artist  again  by  the  cloak 
and  pulled  him  forward  so  that  her  parents  might  not  hear ; 
"  look  here  !  I  think  I  can  do  better  than  take  Count 
Paolini.  Count  Paolini  is  all  right,  you  know,  and  I  tell  you 
it  will  break  my  heart  to  give  him  up.  It  will  break  my 
heart,  but  I  can  do  better — I — I — "  She  put  up  her  hands 
and  burst  into  tears.  "  It  will  break — break — it  will  break 
my ! " 

"  Poor,  poor,  dear  child  !  Now  just  see  what  your  cruelty 
has  done.  I  told  you  it  would  kill  her — break  her — break — 
break — boo,  hoo,  hoo  !  "  Mrs.  Wopsus  also  wept. 

The  carriage  spun  through  the  crowd  and  sped  on  around 


The  Pink  Princess.  209 

the  hill,  while  the  polite  Italians  lifted  their  hats,  and  the 
machinery  that  seemed  to  be  attached  to  the  carriage-wheels 
went  through  the  same  operation  as  before. 

This  time  the  kind-hearted  mother  sent  two  long  and  very 
heavily-laden  express  trains  of  tears  down  her  railroad  lines, 
and  there  was  no  collision  this  time  till  they  came  to  the 
chin,  where  they  hung  and  swung  like  the  little  light-limbed 
boys  swinging  at  gymnastics  there  in  the  gardens. 

Suddenly  Murietta  started  almost  from  his  seat.  They 
were  driving  right  beside  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  all 
that  gathering  of  beauty.  It  was  the  Countess  Edna,  dressed 
as  usual  in  rosy  pink,  with  her  black  lace  mantilla  blowing 
loosely  back  and  about  her  shoulders.  She  looked  like  a 
great  rich  rose  just  opened,  fragrant,  full,  and  ready  to  be 
gathered  by  any  hand  that  was  bold  enough  to  pluck  it  from 
the  tree. 

The  same  subdued  sadness  aboub  her ;  the  same  careless 
repose  ;  the  half  hiding  away ;  the  lounging  back  in  the  car 
riage  ;  the  indifference  about  her  dress,  as  if  she  tried  hard 
not  to  be  so  beautiful,  and  was  only  beautiful  because  she 
could  not  help  it. 

Murietta  hesitated  a  moment  before  lifting  his  hat.  Her 
lips  parted.  The  man  bowed  and  half  rose  in  his  seat  with 
admiration. 

"  Jove  !  what  a  beauty !  "  ejaculated  the  railroad  king, 
speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"  Oh !  who's  that  pink  princess  ? "  cried  Mollie,  loud 
enough  almost  for  the  marble  statue  there  of  Rienzi  to  have 
heard. 

The  Countess  smiled  at  this,  and  the  two  carriages  drove 
on  the  round  together,  and  drew  up  together  in  the  long 
shadow  of  the  great  palm,  for  it  was  nearly  sunset. 

There  were  informal  introductions  passed ;  and  to  the  de 
light  and  relief  of  Murietta,  Mollie  took  it  upon  herself  to  say 
all  that  was  necessary  to  be  said,  and  perhaps  a  great  deal  more. 


2io  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

Marietta  was  moody  once  more.  This  beautiful  woman 
had  always  made  him  uncertain  of  his  footing.  He  had 
never  felt  safe  in  her  presence.  It  always  seemed  to  him 
that  she  filled  up  the  whole  atmosphere,  and  absorbed  him  to 
herself  without  knowing  or  intending  it. 

He  had  not  kept  his  promise  to  return  to  her,  because  in 
the  first  place  he  could  not,  and  then  after  his  illness  he 
would  not,  but  had  firmly  resolved  to  forget  her.  At  this 
moment,  as  he  sat  there  silent,  and  Mollie  prattled  on,  his 
resolution  had  fled  the  walls  of  Rome,  and  he  sat  there  a 
captive  to  his  queen. 

How  Mollie  did  talk !  and  how  she  did  tell  the  "  pink 
princess  "  all  her  life,  and  all  the  life  of  her  father,  and  the 
life  of  her  mother,  and  all  her  love  and  her  longing  for  dear, 
dear  Paolini ! 

And  how  politely  the  Countess  listened,  or  pretended  to 
listen,  all  the  time  smiling  half  sadly,  and  not  saying  one 
word. 

"  And  oh  !  the  dreadful  Americans,  Countess  !  how  can 
we  escape  them  ?  They  are  not  even  educated  abroad,  you 
know  !  O  Countess,  is  there  a  place,  can  you  tell  me  where 
there  is  a  place,  do  you  think  there  is  any  place,  where  there 
are  no  Americans  ?  " 

The  sun  was  down ;  the  carriages  were  parting ;  good-byes 
were  hastily  said ;  but  Mollie  shouted  back,  "  Is  there  a  place 
where  there  are  no  Americans  ?  " 

The  Countess  smiled  as  her  carriage  passed ;  and  with  a 
half-playful  light  in  her  great  full  eyes,  lifted  her  face  to 
wards  Heaven  !  And  that  was  Mollie's  answer. 


CHAPTEE  XXV. 


NEW  ROME  AND  NEW  ROMANS. 


UT  yonder  to  the  south,  be 
yond  the  walls  of  Rome,  and 
five,  ten,  twenty  miles  away, 
lies  old  Rome,  lifting  here 
and  there  above  the  earth 
some  broken  bit  of  the  skel 
eton  of  her  own  mighty  pro 
portions.  And  down  here 
by  the  Tiber,  immediately 
under  us,  as  we  stand  on  the 
Spanish  steps  and  look  west,  we  see 
shafts  of  marble,  old  columns  that 
lift  like  mossy  tombstones  on  the 
grave  of  the  great  dead  city.  There 
lies  Rome  on  the  banks  of  the 
Tiber,  old  Rome,  dead,  very  dead,  and  buried  in  the  dust 
and  the  debris  of  ten  and  fifteen  centuries. 

On  the  side  of  this  dead  city,  out  of  the  grave  as  it  were, 
even  out  of  the  dust  and  bones  and  ashes  of  this  great  dead 
city,  has  grown  a  sort  of  mushroom.  This  mushroom  is  new 
Rome. 

New  Rome  is  here,  pushed  back  from  the  Tiber,  back  on  to 
the  higher  land,  for  they  could  not  build  closer  because  of  the 
immense  ruins  ;  and  then  the  Tiber  overflowed  too.  But  here 
is  new  Rome  to-day — a  very  rickety  town  it  is  too,  compared 


212  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

with  the  old  one.  You  might  call  it  a  toadstool  grown  up 
out  of  the  bones  of  the  dead  lion,  and  not  be  far  wrong. 

Here  are  shops,  banks,  saloons  for  refreshments,  fashionable 
resorts  for  fashionable  gamblers,  fashionable  modern  improve 
ments  of  civilization. 

Here  are  side-walks  and  wide  streets,  and  well  paved 
drives,  all  giving  the  new  town  an  infinite  advantage  over 
the  old,  down  there  in  the  Ghetto  where  the  Jews  are. 

Here  are  also  painted  women,  fast  and  frivolous,  gay  young 
men,  giving  their  fortunes  every  chance,  broken  foreigners 
and  threadbare  Romans,  and  many  other  things  which  make 
a  man  who  is  in  earnest  with  the  world  and  himself,  infinitely 
prefer  the  old  town,  even  as  it  is  now,  with  all  its  rags  and 
wretchedness,  to  the  new.  New  Rome  is,  in  fact,  a  kind  of 
imitation  Paris.  It  may  not  be  quite  so  wicked,  but  it 
certainly  does  its  best,  and  is  improving  in  that  direction  every 
season. 

Murietta  was  a  man  of  extremes.  He  had  been  among  the 
miserable  long  enough.  He  had  settled  away  down  to  the  very 
dregs  from  what  was  reckoned  about  the  top  of  the  fashion 
able  world.  This  he  had  done  by  choice  ;  but  now  that  the 
sun  was  out  again,  and  winter  nearly  gone  in  fact  and  in 
fancy,  and  a  new  life  was  being  offered  him,  he  chose  to 
accept  it. 

In  this  one  year  past,  the  artist  had  ranged  society  in  all 
its  shades  and  grades  with  a  freedom  and  facility  that  was 
amusing  even  to  himself  to  think  of. 

"  I  have  seen  it  all,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  from  the  open- 
air  reception  of  the  crossing-sweeper  up  to  the  first  step  of  the 
throne.  It  is  a  little  better  than  a  comedy  down  about  the 
bottom,  but  not  quite  so  good  as  a  funeral  as  you  get  to  the 
top.  Perhaps  the  best  place  is  a  calling  acquaintance  with 
those  who  are  just  a  little  below  or  a  good  distance  above 
«  shop.'  " 

And  now  that  little  Mollie  Wopsus,  who  talked  to  every- 


New  Rome  and  New  Romans.    213 

body  and  told  everything,  had  seen  the  artist,  all  Rome — 
that  is,  all  the  toadstool  and  mushroom  part  of  Rome — knew 
of  it,  and  invitations  to  "  teas,"  "  afternoon  receptions," 
"  evenings,"  "  balls,"  "  club  dinners,"  "  prayer  meetings," 
"  Christian  Associations,"  "  Missionary  Societies  for  the  Con 
version  of  Catholic  Rome,"  poured  into  the  hands  of  Mollie, 
who  was  supposed  to  know  where  he  dwelt,  to  hand  over  to 
Marietta. 

He  liked  the  prospect  of  a  change.  There  was  an  "even 
ing"  to  be  given  at  the  palace  at  the  head  of  the  Scala  de 
Spagna. 

There  was  the  picture  of  an  American  eagle  with  outspread 
wings  above.  There  was  a  porter,  sound  asleep  in  a  little 
lodge  which  was  not  nearly  big  enough  for  a  bedroom,  yet  a 
great  deal  too  big  for  a  coffin. 

Marietta  had  come  late.  He  waked  up  this  man  with  a 
military  cap  and  military  clothes,  made  the  necessary 
inquiries  as  to  the  route  he  should  take  in  the  labyrinth  of 
stairs,  and  on  what  particular  flat  or  floor  he  should  stop  and 
pull  the  bell,  and  slipping  a  franc  into  the  fellow's  hand  as  a 
sort  of  healing  plaster  for  his  broken  rest,  he  passed  up  as  he 
had  been  directed. 

In  mushroom  Rome  yoxi  always  find  this  Italian  at  the 
door.  He  is  the  faithful  sentinel.  When  Rome  comes  to  be 
destroyed  like  Pompeii,  as  it  probably  will  some  day,  it  will 
be  this  man,  this  porter  with  the  military  cap  with  its  gold 
band,  and  military  clothes  with  gold  stripe,  who  sits  at  every 
^cloor  of  fashionable  Rome,  who  will,  centuries  after,  be  found 
in  the  ashes  and  ruins,  dead  at  his  post ! 

No,  it  will  not  be  the  Roman  soldier  this  time  !  It  will 
be  the  Italian  porter  in  the  military  cap  and  military  clothes, 
for  he  will  be  sound  asleep  and  cannot  escape. 

This  porter  of  mushroom  Rome  seems  never  to  do  anything 
whatever  but  sleep — but  to  take  toll  and  sleep.  He  wakes 
up  j  ust  long  enough  to  take  your  pennies  or  your  franc,  or 


214  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

half-franc,  and  then  he  settles  back  in  his  coffin  at  the  side  of 
the  door,  and  peacefully  sleeps  right  before  your  eyes. 

What  a  conscience  he  must  have  ! 

Down  in  old  Rome,  real  Rome,  they  also  have  porters. 
But  these  porters  are  shoemakers,  and  they  sit  either  outside 
the  door  or  inside  the  hall.  There  is  no  house  so  humble  in 
Rome,  but  that  it  has  its  porter.  And  these  porters  of  the 
Ghetto  are  great  men.  They  sit  there  all  day,  and  talk  and 
work,  and  work  and  talk,  and  truly  come  to  be  very  wise 
and  learned.  They  know  even  more  than  the  French  barber, 
and,  if  such  a  thing  were  possible,  could  even  talk  faster  than 
he.  There  is  always  a  crowd  around  the  porter  in  the  Ghetto. 
He  is  a  sort  of  bulletin-board,  and  the  poor  Jews  and  tho 
fishermen  and  the  chestnut  women  come,  and  stand  before 
him,  and  read  the  news  as  he  prods,  and  pegs,  and  pokes, 
and  pounds  away  at  his  knees. 

When  you  first  visit  this  part  of  old  Rome,  you  wonder 
why  in  the  world  there  are  so  many  shoemakers.  After  you 
have  walked  half  a  mile  over  the  sharp  little  stones  set  up  as 
pavement  and  sidewalk,  you  cease  to  wonder. 

All,  or  at  least  it  seemed  to  Murietta,  all  Rome  was  at 
this  reception.  He  started  back  with  an  expression  of  dis 
pleasure  as  the  gentle  and  the  genial  hostess  led  him  across 
the  salon.  The  Countess  was  before  him.  And  more  beau 
tiful  than  ever  before  !  The  same  half  sad  smile  on  her 
baby  face,  the  same  abundance  of  blond  hair  about  her  brows 
and  neck,  the  same  rose  and  alabaster  complexion — just  as  he 
had  seen  her  in  Genoa  !  In  fact  there  were  the  same  pink 
slippers,  the  same  pearl-colored  gloves,  the  same  rustle  of 
soft  rose  silk.  She  was  indeed  the  beautiful  pink  prin 
cess! 

It  was  a  strange  dress  for  any  land  save  this.  But  in  this 
intense  and  passionate  country,  where  the  blood  is  warm 
and  the  imagination  is  forever  fired  by  beauty  and  beautifvil 
scenes,  where  the  soul  is  warm  with  love,  and  the  body  glad 


New  Rome  and  Nezv  Romans.         215 

with  wine  and  the  glorious  sunshine,  color  may  run  riot, 
and  men  only  admire. 

The  commonest  Italian  soldier  wears  a  uniform  more  rich 
and  showy  tenfold,  than  the  commander-in-chief  of  the 
United  States  army. 

Let  one  of  the  police  of  the  city  of  Rome  walk  down 
Broadway  in  his  uniform,  with  sword  and  hat,  his  hat  a 
perfect  storm  of  waving  red  cock's  feathei*s,  and  all  New 
York  would  turn  out  to  look  and  wonder.  Here  in  this 
warm  land  you  take  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course  and  count  it 
all  very  appropriate. 

Here  was  the  din  and  tumult  of  a  hundred  voices.  Above 
the  tumult  the  voice  of  Mollie  Wopsus  rose  like  the  call  of 
a  hunter's  horn,  and  she  was  everywhere  and  at  the  same 
time  the  happiest  heart,  and  perhaps  the  most  guileless  in 
all  new  Rome. 

There  was  a  crowd  of  admirers  around  the  Countess  as 
she  lounged  back  in  a  sofa  that  half  buried  her  in  its  luxuri 
ance.  These  tiresome  admirers  talked  of  the  wonderful  pic 
tures  in  Rome  with  a  learning  and  aptitude  of  expression 
not  to  be  found  outside  of  a  guide-book. 

How  terribly  bored  she  did  seem  !  It  looked  as  if  she  had 
retreated  backward  to  this  sofa,  and,  after  retreating  from 
the  learned  young  travellers  as  far  as  possible,  had  there 
entrenched  herself  and  tried  to  hide  down  in  the  depths  of 
the  cushions,  and  escape. 

A  little  pink  slipper  tapped  on  the  low  ottoman,  and  a 
little  pink  finger  had  twisted  itself  and  rolled  itself  like  a 
silkworm  tight  up  in  a  little  pink  frill,  and  was  playing  sad 
havoc  with  itself  and  the  little  pink  glove.  The  Countess 
was  getting  nervous.  She  smiled,  pouted,  pushed  out  her 
rich  ruddy  lips  like  the  opening  of  a  rose,  and  tapping  the 
foot  a  little  faster  than  before,  said  to  those  travelled  and 
learned  young  men, 

"Yes,  yes,   gentlemen,  I  understand.     I   see  how  it  is. 


2i6  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

This  talk  about  Art  has  its  phases  and  its  symptoms,  and 
makes  its  attack  and  passes  away  just  like  a  fever.  But 
with  this  difference.  It  does  not  hurb  the  person  whom  it 
attacks.  It  is  only  those  who  are  near  him  who  have  to 
suffer." 

i  The  young  men  fell  back  a  little,  and  one  of  them  looked 
as  red  as  if  he  had  been  painted  for  the  war-path.  In  fact 
he  seemed  to  think  and  to  act  as  if  he  was  really  on  the  eve 
of  a  battle,  and  was  now  advancing  with  very  aggressive 
voice  and  gesture  on.  the  quiet  Countess  entrenched  in  her 
sofa. 

"  Well,  well,"  she  said  with  a  sigh  of  resignation,  "  have 
it  out !  Your  first  month  in  Italy,  you  will  talk  Art  all 
the  time.  After  you  are  here  six  months  you  will  only  talk 
Art  half  the  time ;  after  you  are  here  a  year  you  will  not 
talk  Art  at  all ;  but  you  will  begin  to  think.  After  thinking 
it  over  a  year,  you  will  then  quietly  go  home,  perfectly 
satisfied  that  you  don't  know  anything  about  it." 

The  little  silkworm  unrolled  itself,  and  the  butterflies 
flew  away. 

"  There  !  I  got  rid  of  them  at  last.  Come,  sit  by  me  and 
escape  this  whirlpool.  There  are  better  things  in  the  world 
than  a  war  dance.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  You  speak  in  parables,"  answered  the  artist,  as  he  took 
the  pretty  little  hand  that  was  reached  to  him,  in  his,  and 
sat  down  by  the  side  of  the  Coiintess.  The  little  pink  feet 
ceased  to  play  on  the  ottoman  ;  the  pretty  little  hands  lay 
still ;  and  the  nervousness  was  quite  gone  away. 

"  I  surely  am  getting  old,"  said  the  Countess  a  little 
gravely,  as  she  looked  up  at  the  artist.  "  I  take  no  pleasure 
in  all  this  excitement  of  society  whatever.  In  fact  I  have  a 
terror  of  it." 

"  It  does  not  take  many  years  for  one  to  come  to  that," 
laughed  the  artist.  And  then  he  added,  looking  at  the 
Countess,  "  That  is  a  sign  of  wisdom,  not  of  years." 


New  Rome  and  New  Romans.    217 

"  You  are  complimentary  to-night.  But  speaking  of 
•wisdom,  do  you  not  know  that  that  same  little  Mollie  is  the 
wisest  one  in  all  the  salon  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but — to  coin  a  new  expression — excepting  the 
present  company,  I  know  she  is  about  the  best." 

"  Nay,  nay,  but  she  is  really  wise.  Laugh  and  talk — that 
is  wisdom !  " 

"  Mollie  laughs  because  she  cannot  help  it.  When  we  are 
wise  enough  to  know  that  it  is  best  to  laugh,  then  we  are 
past  laughing  !  " 

"  Such  is  life,"  sighed  the  Countess ;  "  but  do  not  talk  in 
that  way."  She  looked  at  him  with  an  earnestness  in  her 
great  brown  eyes  that  he  had  never  fairly  seen  before.  "  Do 
not  stand  upon  that  ground,  I  entreat  you,  or  you  will  break 
down  the  wall  that  lies  between  us  now,  and  our  souls  will 
stand  confronting  each  other." 

The  little  pink  foot  fairly  trembled  on  the  ottoman. 

Murietta  was  thoughtful  and  silent  now.  He  was  an 
artist  with  his  brush — not  with  his  tongue.  At  last  he  rose 
up  and  said  slowly  : 

"  You  are  right.  I  will  not  touch  upon  that  land  again. 
We  two  sail  solitaiy  seas.  We  are  in  the  world,  and  must 
in  some  measure  remain  of  the  world.  We  will  go  on  in  the 
way,  in  the  line  of  thought  and  action,  and  after  the  fashion 
that  it  has  prescribed,  and — " 

"  Bet  your  life,  here  he  is,  mamma !  here  he  is,  making 
love  to  the  pink  princess  !  Now  come  !  we're  going  to  have 
something  to  eat.  Ah  !  they  do  make  the  best  lobster  salads 
in  Koine  !  Celery  and  lobster  and  vinegar  and  oil  !  Oh, 
it's  awful  jolly  !  Come  along,  come.  You've  got  to  take 
mamma  to  supper,  the  hostess  said  so,  'cause  we  all  come 
from  California  you  know.  Come  now — come  along !  Oh 
if  my  dear  Count  was  only  here !  " 

Murietta  laughed  outright. 
10 


218  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

11  Love  and  lobster  salad !  Oh  Mollie,  sunny,  sunny 
Mollie  ! " 

"Bet  your  life  I'll  do!"  And  the  light-hearted  Mollie 
laid  her  head  sideways  and  danced  the  hoka-poka.  Murietta 
resigned  the  Countess  to  a  gentleman  sent  to  escort  her  to 
the  table,  and  taking  Mrs.  Wopsus  on  his  arm,  left  Mollie 
to  dance  to  the  admiring  Italians  in  uniform,  who  hovered 
about  and  laughed  with  delight  in  spite  of  themselves. 

Mollie  came  dancing  in  as  if  she  was  dancing  the  Saturn 
alia.  She  was  in  the  midst  of  an  admiring  group  of  Italian 
officers.  It  seems  odd  to  tell,  but  it  was  not  at  all  inappro 
priate.  She  was  so  thoroughly  good,  so  simple-hearted,  that 
everybody  smiled,  and  said,  "  Oh,  it's  only  Mollie  Wopsus," 
and  sat  down  to  the  repast. 

It  was  a  little  singular,  and  so  thought  Murietta,  that  he 
should  find  himself  seated  between  the  tearful  Mrs.  Wopsus 
and  the  Countess.  But  such  is  Italian  civility.  The  gentle 
man  who  had  come  to  escort  the  Countess  to  the  table  rightly 
guessed  that  he  had  cut  the  thread  of  a  conversation,  and 
therefore  took  some  care  to  restore  the  lady  as  nearly  as 
possible  to  where  he  found  her. 

Mollie  sat  opposite,  and  was  soon  entrenched  behind  a 
perfect  barricade  of  salad,  and  was  firing  right  and  left  with 
her  tongue  at  the  officers  of  the  Italian  army. 

"And  really  is  this  Count  Paolini  here?  "  asked  Murietta, 
leaning  over  the  table  to  Mollie. 

"  Hush  !  "  She  put  up  her  hand,  fork  and  all,  to  the  side 
of  her  head,  and  leaning  half  way  over  the  table,  to  Murietta, 
said  again,  "  Hush  !  He  is  not  here :  he — he — is  not 
here — "  She  began  to  catch  her  breath  as  if  she  was  about 
to  burst  into  tears. 

,     Murietta  hastened  to  change  the  topic,  and  spoke  to  the 
Countess  and  Mrs.  Wopsus  of  the  weather. 

"  Charming  weather !  "  said  Mrs.  Wopsus,  and  went  on 
with  her  lobster  salad. 


New  Rome  and  New  Romans.    219 

"  To-morrow,"  said  the  Countess,  "  is  the  opening  of  the 
Carnival.  I  shall  drive  to  Ponta  Malo  to  see  Saturn  descend 
the  Tiber,  and  will  take  it  as  an  especial  favor  if  you  will 
be  with  me  aud  my  little  boy." 

"  But  have  you  place  in  your  carriage  ?  The  count  and 
the  admiral — " 

"No — no — no  !  Don't  mention  them — don't  mention  /tint, 
I  mean  the  admiral.  They  will  not  be  with  me,  and " 

She  almost  dropped  her  fork,  and  half  drew  back  from  the 
table  with  excitement. 

Murietta  had  made  another  mistake,  and  hastened  again, 
to  change  the  subject,  and  began  to  talk  to  Mollie  of  the 
climate  of  Italy. 

"  You  will  come  ?  "  half  whispered  the  Countess. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Murietta  sharply,  "yes."  And  then  the 
next  second  he  wished  with  all  his  heart  he  had  said  No. 

"  Come,  then,  to  the  palace  at  twelve.  Or  shall  I  send  the 
carriage  for  you  ?  " 

Murietta  frowned,  and  said  he  preferred  to  call. 

"I  will  wait  for  you  and  expect  you  ;  I  cannot  go  alone. 
The  Count  cannot  or  will  not  go  with  me  without  the  ad 
miral.  I  will  not  take  the  admiral." 

«  Good  !  " 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

"  Yes — no — that  is,  I  know  him  thoroughly  for  a  dog  and 
a  villain,  or  a  fool  and  buffoon." 

"  Soft !  He  is  not  a  fool — not  a  bit.  of  it.  If  he  only 
was!  No,  no;  don't  for  a  moment  imagine  he  is  a  fool. 
There  !  I  have  been  telling  secrets  !  "  sighed  the  Countess. 
"  Let  it  pass.  Forget  what  I  have  said.  But  be  sure  to 
come." 

"  I  will  come.  I  shall  be  glad  to  forget  what  you  have 
said.  And  you  will  pardon  me  for  having  said  so  much 
about  a  man  of  whom  I  know  so  little." 

"  There  you  are  again  making  love  to  the  pink  princess  !  " 


220  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

\ 

cried  Mollie ;  and  all  the  table  looked  up  and  laughed, 
while  the  face  of  the  Countess  took  on  the  hue  of  not  only 
pink  but  scarlet. 

1  "  Ah !  you  are  only  jealous  and  provoked  because  the 
Count  is  not  here." 

"  Bet  your  life  I  am  provoked  because  he  ain't  here." 

"  And  why  is  he  not  here,  then  ?  "  queried  Marietta  across 
the  table. 

"  Because,  because  you  see  he  and  Prince  Trawaska  have 
gone  to  Court.  They  have  to  be  there,  you  see." 

"  And  why  do  they  have  to  be  there  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they  have  to  be  —  that's  all.  I  reckon  it  is  be 
cause  the  king  wants  them.  Maybe  the  Court  could  not  go 
on  without  them— don't  know — but  Prince  Trawaska " 

"  Prince  whom  ? "  asked  Murietta,  for  the  first  time 
catching  the  name  that  seemed  to  be  familiar. 

"  Prince  Trawaska,  or  something  of  that  kind.  He's  not 
an  Italian,  you  know.  No,  he's  one  of  those  dreadful 
Germans,  with  big  red  ears  and  big  red  heads  and  big  red 
faces,  that  look  just  like  as  if  they  had  just  been  born,  you 
know." 

And  here  Mollie  set  her  fork-handle  down  on  the  table 
with  the  prongs  erect  in  the  air  like  the  trident  of  Neptune 
in  the  Vatican  statue,  while  her  pretty  lips  pouted  and  wres 
tled  with  a  mouthful  of  lobster  salad. 

"  Mollie,  I  know  a  Prince  Trawaska,"  answered  Murietta, 
half  gravely,  across  the  table. 

"  Ah,  do  you,  do  you,  do  you  ?  Now,  that's  nice,  you  bet 
your  life !  Maybe  it's  the  same  one  and  maybe  it's  not. 
That  will  do  you  see  for  the  first  chapter  of  a  novel.  There'll 
be  two.  One  of  them  will  be  a  villain,  you  know,  and  he 
will  marry  some  beautiful  princess " 

"  Or  a  general's  beautiful  daughter  from  California,"  put 
in  the  Countess  quietly. 

"  Yes,  yes,  that's  it,  bet  your  life  !     One  of  them,  you  see, 


New  Rome  and  New  Romans.    221 

will  be  the  heavy  villain  of  the  novel.  He  will  marry  some 
body,  and  then  the  other  one,  who  will  be  the  brave  good 
knight,  will  come  and  rescue  her  and  kill  the  wicked  prince. 
And  then  she  will  mourn  very  deeply  and  very  properly,  and 
then  the  cross  old  father  will  get  reconciled,  and  will  give 
them  any  amount  of  tin  and  say,  '  Bless  you,  my  children  ! ' 
And  then,  after  mourning  very  deeply  for  just  six  months  to 
the  day,  they  will  be  married  and  move  into  a  great  castle 
with  towers  and  battlements  and  a  secret  passage  and — oh  bet 
your  life !  I  could  write  the  best  novel  in  the  world,  I 
could !  " 

The  trident  went  down  and  made  a  harpoon  plunge  at  the 
diminished  heap  of  salad,  and  Mollie's  little  mouth  was  stop 
ped  effectually  for  some  time. 

"But  Mollie,"  began  Marietta  gravely. 

Mollie  set  the  trident  in  rest  like  another  Neptune,  and 
looked  up  as  she  wrestled  with  the  lobster  salad. 

"  But  Mollie,  suppose  these  two  particular  princes  and  the 
villain  turn  out  to  be  the  same  one?  " 

"  Oh  nonsense,  but  it  won't,  it  can't.  It  never  does,  you 
know.  It  never  will." 

"  No,  not  in  fiction.     But  it  may  in  fact,  nevertheless." 

And  Marietta  wrinkled  his  brows  and  looked  across  the 
table  very  seriously  at  the  light-hearted  little  Mollie  wrest 
ling  with  the  last  fragments  of  a  plateful  of  lobster  salad. 

"  But  you  frighten  me,  Mr.  Marietta.  You  never  talk  to 
me  like  other  people.  You  always  make  me  think.  You 
are  a  thousand  years  old,  and* — and — "  Down  went  the 
trident  across  the  empty  plate  with  a  clang,  and  Mollie 
began  to  pout  in  earnest. 

"  Well,  Miss  Mollie,  I  will  not  frighten  you  any  more.  I 
only  want  to  tell  you,  however,  that  this  Prince  Trawaska 
that  I  know  is  not  an  Italian,  that  he  is  a  colonel  in  the 
Italian  army,  that  he  has  enormous  ears,  a  red,  smooth,  fat 
face,  a  stout  chin,  and  a  long  sabre  at  his  side." 


222  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

The  Italians  present  "were  leaning  and  listening  with  as 
much  attention  and  interest  as  their  matchless  politeness  will 
allow.  Marietta  went  on,  "  And  also  I  want  to  tell  you 
that  we  live  in  the  same  house,  on  the  same  floor,  and " 

"  Good  !  tip-top,  first-class,  bet  your  life !  On  the  same 
floor  with  a  prince." 

"  Yes,  next  door  to  him,  in  fact.  He  and  an  Italian  count 
occupy  the  adjoining  room.  And  the  prince  is  a  knave  !  " 

"  The  adjoining  room  !  and  the  prince  is  a  knave  !  "  ejacu 
lated  Mrs.  Wopsus. 

Mollie  caught  up  and  again  clanged  down  the  trident  on 
the  empty  plate  till  it  rang  like  a  sword  on  a  helmet. 

"  Next  thing  you'll  be  saying  something  dreadful  about 
Count  Paolini,  you  will !  and  I  won't  stand  it,  I  won't !  " 

Down  went  the  little  head,  up  went  the  little  hands,  and 
tears  ran  through  the  fingers  like  rain. 

Then  in  a  moment  she  seemed  to  rally,  and  thought  she 
had  something  to  say  and  thought  she  could  trust  herself  to 
say  it,  and  taking  down  her  hands  and  taking  up  the  trident, 
she  began : 

"  Bet  your  life,  if — if — Bet  your  life,  if — boo — hoo — 
hoo— " 

Poor  kind-hearted  Mrs.  Wopsus  looked  up  in  silent 
dismay,  and  then  in  an  instant  started  two  full  express  trains 
of  tears  down  the  railroad  lines  of  her  face,  as  if  to  the 
assistance  of  her  daughter. 

But  Mollie  soon  recovered.  These  were  April  showers 
falling  in  the  bright  spring-time  of  her  youth,  and  the  sun 
soon  was  shining  bright  as  ever. 

"  I  will  never  speak  to  you  again,  Mr.  Murietta.  Never 
so  long  as  I  live.  No,  Mr.  Murietta,  I  will  not.  I  love 
Count  Paolini,  and  I  don't  care  who  knows  it;  and  I  will 
have  him,  or  it  will  kill  me  !  There  now !  It's  out  and  I 
will  never  speak  to  you  again.  Please,  Signer  Colombo,  pass 
me  the  salad." 


New  Rome  and  New  Romans.    223 

The  lobster  salad  was  passed. 

"And  now,  Mr.  Marietta,"  said  Mollie,  as  she  set  the 
trident  in  rest,  "  I  want  to  know  how  you  happen  to  know 
Prince  Trawaska  is  a  villain." 

Murietta  only  said,  "  To-morrow,"  in  answer,  and  soon  the 
guests  arose  and  returned  to  the  saloon. 


CHAPTER  XXYI. 


CARNIVAL  EVE. 

URIETTA'S  mind  was  filled 
with  the  Countess  as  he  took  his 
way  down  the  Spanish  steps  at 
an  early  hour  for  Italy.  He 
recollected  her,  and  only  her. 
It  seemed  to  him  as  he  thought 
of  her  that  she  filled  the  whole 
salon  with  a  soft  and  a  rosy 
light. 

And  he  recollected  her  as  be 
ing  singularly  alone  also  there 
that  evening.  Even  her  husband,  the 
cunning  little  count,  seemed  to  avoid  her, 
and  with  a  devilish  and  refined  courtesy 
was  seen  at  every  opportunity  to  point 
out  his  wife  to  those  with  whom  he 
spoke,  and  shake  his  head  and  sigh. 

More  than  once  he  had  seen  the  ladies  put  their  heads 
together  and  whisper,  as  they  looked  furtively  over  their 
shoulders  at  the  lady  in  rose  and  pink,  and  once  he  heard  a 
lady  say,  "  The  poor  dear  count !  what  a  gentle  and  devoted 
Imsband  he  is  !  " 

What  could  it  all  mean  ?  The  man  was  more  puzzled  than 
ever.  Yet  he  was  more  than  ever  convinced  that  there  was 
something  very  wrong  and  very  rotten  in  Rome. 

He  drew  his  cloak  closer  about  him  as  he  reached  the  great 
Spanish  square  and  wedged  himself  on  through  the  crowd 


Carnival  Eve.  225 

towards  the  Corso  with  great  difficulty,  for  this  was  Carnival 
Eve,  and  Rome  was  not  only  full  up  to  the  top  of  the  basin, 
as  the  Secretary  of  Legation  would  have  it,  but  Rome  was 
brimming  and  boiling  over.  There  was  hardly  standing  room 
in  Rome.  It  seemed  that  all  Italy  was  there,  and  half  of 
America  besides. 

What  crowds  of  maskers  !   what  shouts  !  what  merriment ! 

In  a  moment  he  was  forced  to  put  aside  the  concern  and 
care  about  the  Countess,  and  was  borne  away  with  the  stream 
of  pleasure  in  spite  of  himself. 

Men  were  dressed  as  women,  women  as  men,  boys  as  beasts, 
and  perhaps  there  were  beasts  dressed  in  the  guise  of  gentle 
men. 

It  was  noticeable  that  these  maskers  were,  as  a  rule,  very 
loud  of  speech,  and  often  very  vulgar,  with  an  accent  in 
whatever  tongue  they  attempted  to  speak  which  showed  very 
clearly  that  they  were  either  from  foreign  lands  having  their 
first  Carnival  in  Rome,  or  Italians  of  a  very  low  order  and 
of  questionable,  or  rather  unquestionable  character. 

It  was  quite  certain  that  the  merry  old  cardinals  and 
gallant  gentlemen  who  once  made  the  Corso  brilliant  with 
sparks  of  wit  flashed  from  behind  their  masks  on  Carnival 
Eve,  were  not  there  now.  The  scene  in  some  parts  of  the 
Corso  resembled  a  lot  of  madcap  boys  and  girls  in  the  country 
playing  blindman's-buff  in  a  barn. 

"  You  are  a  woman!  "  cried  a  sharp  voice  from  behind  a 
black  mask  in  very  bad  French,  and  with  an  American 
accent.  "  You  are  a  woman.  I  know  you  by  your  long 
hair  !  "  and  she  laid  hold  of  the  artist  and  pulled  him  towards 
her,  and  laughed  and  shouted  as  she  did  so. 

"  Pardon  me,  I  am  not  a  woman  !  " 

"  Prove  it !  prove  it !  " 

The  artist  put  his  arm  about  her  gallantly,  and  made  as  if 
he  would  kiss  her  and  prove  his  case. 

She  screamed  and  struggled. 
10* 


226  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

f(  Hands  off  there,  sir  !  Let  her  go  !  Let  her  go  !  "  cried  a 
voice  from  under  a  pair  of  goat's  horns  and  a  bearded  mask 
which  was  meant  to  represent  the  god  Pan  playing  his  reed 
by  the  river. 

"  And  who  are  you  ?  "  said  Marietta,  assuming  a  mock- 
heroic  attitude,  and  reaching  back  his  hand  as  if  about  to 
draw  a  sword. 

The  great  god  Pan  stumbled  over  his  goat's  hoofs,  flourished 
his  reed,  and  fell  back  as  if  terrified  to  death ;  but  the  artist 
still  held  on  to  the  masked  lady  who  had  first  taken  hold  of 
him,  as  if  he  was  about  to  play  the  part  of  Romulus  in  the 
old  story  of  the  Sabines. 

"  Let  her  go,  please  let  her  go  !  that's  my  sister,"  pleaded 
the  great  god  Pan  from  under  his  beard  and  horns. 

"  And  who  are  you  ?  "  again  asked  the  artist. 

"  Why,  I  am  the  son  of  Mr.  Thompson,  of  Cincinnati." 

"  And  who  is  Mr.  Thompson  of  Cincinnati  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  know  Mr.  Thompson  ?  Why,  he's  the  richest 
pork-packer  in  the  world  !  " 

Marietta  let  go  his  little  Sabine  with  a  singular  feeling  of 
disgust,  and  passed  on,  musing  as  he  went. 

"  The  great  god  Pan  with  his  reed,  and  the  great  pork- 
packer  with  his  gold  !  So  we  go.  Such  is  life.  Verily 
extremes  do  meet;  and  fortune  as  well  as  misfortune  makes 
some  strange  bedfellows  !  " 

In  places  the  crowd  beat  and  surged  against  the  sides  of 
the  streets  as  does  a  swollen  stream  against  its  banks.  In 
other  places  the  crowd  and  confusion  was  not  so  great,  and 
people  stood  talking  in  groups  or  watching  the  maskers  as 
they  went,  and  came,  and  called,  and  bantered  each  other  as 
they  passed. 

A  Capuchin  monk  was  seen  coming  down  a  side  street  and 
to  enter  the  crowd  with  a  masked  woman  leaning  on  his 
arm. 

The  crowd  began  to  hiss  and  jeer,  and  throw  old  bouquets 


Carnival  Eve.  227 

and  cabbages,  and  everything  of  the  kind  they  could  lay 
hands  upon.  For  who  had  ever  seen  a  Capuchin  monk  with 
a  woman  on  his  arm  ? 

The  man  in  the  garb  of  the  monk  backed  up  against  the 
wall  and  cried  for  quarter,  while  the  woman  tore  off  her 
mask  and  screamed  on  general  principles. 

"  Take  off  that  gown,  and  let  go  that  woman  !  "  cried  one. 

"  A  pretty  fellow  you,  indeed,  to  play  the  Capuchin  with 
a  woman  on  your  arm  !  "  cried  another. 

The  bouquets  and  rotten  cabbages  fell  like  a  storm,  and 
again  the  woman  screamed  for  help. 

A  policeman  lifted  his  hand  to  the  crowd,  and  then  turn 
ing  to  the  man,  made  him  take  off  the  gown  and  unmask 
where  he  stood. 

"  You  are  not  allowed  to  mock  at  religion  here ;  and 
above  all,  let  me  advise  you,  never  attempt  to  wear  the  garb 
of  a  Capuchin,  for  the  monks  of  this  order  are  respected, 
nay,  revered,  by  all  respectable  men  ;  and  the  people,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  law,  will  not  allow  them  to  be  insulted." 

The  man  stood  there  holding  on  to  the  woman  as  if  he 
was  afraid  of  the  crowd. 

"  You  will  give  me  your  name  and  address,  and  you  can 
go,"  said  the  sergeant. 

He  gave  his  name  and  address,  and  proved  to  be  a  German 
student  from  Heidelberg. 

"Let  me  tell  you  how  to  disguise  yourself?"  cried  a 
Frenchman.  The  German  looked  up. 

"  Go  home  and  put  on  the  dress  and  manners  of  a  gentle 
man — then  your  own  mother  will  not  know  you !  " 

"  Ay,"  answered  the  German  back  over  his  shoulder,  as  he 
turned  away  with  the  woman,  "  we  go  to  Paris  to  learn 
manners  of  the  French.  We  send  our  army  to  Paris  to  learn 
manners ! "  added  the  German,  looking  back  at  the  French 
man. 

Murietta  elbowed  his  way  on  up  th«  Corso  through  tins 


228  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

crowd  of  masks  and  faces,  and  wondered  what  the  to-morrow 
would  bring  him. 

He  lifted  his  hat  as  he  passed  opposite  the  great  palace 
with  the  high  portal  opening  to  the  court,  with  the  little 
forest  of  plants  and  flowers,  and  again  fell  to  thinking  of  the 
one  fair  woman. 

He  went  home  at  last,  and  was  at  War  with  himself.  The 
beautiful  Countess  floated  before  him  like  a  rosy  light  as  he 
passed  under  the  shade  of  the  Tarpeian  Rock,  and  climbed 
the  crooked  stairs  to  his  little  cell. 

All  the  merry  maskers,  and  the  tumult  of  the  Corso,  and 
the  promise  of  a  gay  Carnival  to-morrow,  could  not  draw  this 
man  away  from  himself  for  ten  minutes  together. 

He  wished,  devoutly  wished,  he  had  never  seen  this  Coun 
tess  ;  and  at  last,  as  he  threw  off  his  cloak,  he  said  to  himself 
with  an  emphasis  that  was  almost  an  oath,  that  he  would  see 
her  no  more. 

Then  turning  behind  the  door  he  lifted  and  laid  aside  the 
shawl  that  his  black-eyed  little  ladies  had  thrown  over  the 
picture  there,  and  bore  the  easel  out  to  the  middle  of  the 
room. 

There  she  was,  just  as  he  had  always  seen  her,  just  as  she 
had  always  seemed,  looking  back  over  her  shoulder,  going 
away  from  him  without  one  word,  without  even  a  look  of 
love,  without  even  a  glance  of  recognition  ! 

Now  his  woman  seemed  to  be  a  part  of  himself.  He 
thought  of  the  Countess  as  a  stranger,  a  sort  of  usurper,  as 
some  one  against  whom  he  must  sometime  take  up  arms  and 
expel. 

He  drew  the  dagger  from  the  bosom  where  it  had  hung  for 
a  long  time,  and  hurled  it  back  into  the  corner.  The  canvas 
was  cut  and  torn,  and  swayed  and  bent  all  out  of  shape.  He 
tried  to  re-arrange  it,  but  the  wet  picture  had  dried  as  the 
dagger  had  drawn  and  stretched  it ;  and  it  would  not  come 
again  in  its  place. 


Carnival  Eve.  229 

The  impulsive  artist  stood  before  the  picture  with  folded 
arms,  and  looked  at  this  shadow  of  his  ideal  long  and  earnestly. 

He  had  wandered  away  from  his  ideal  love,  and  had  taken 
delight  in  the  smiles  of  another.  Now  he  was  very  penitent 
and  very  affectionate.  He  loved  her  more  than  ever  before. 

When  a  man  returns  late  at  night  and  kisses  his  wife  with 
more  than  ordinary  tenderness,  she  may  be  pretty  certain 
that  he  has  been  in  mischief. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


SATURN  SAILING  DOWN  THE    TIBER. 


JURIETTA  slept  long  and  well, 
and  arose  late.  The  sun  was 
sifting  through  the  cracks  in  the 
closed  shutters,  and  spilling  in 
long  bars  as  bright  as  gold  over 
the  carpets  and  the  red  bricks  on 
the  further  floor. 

He  swung  open  the  window, 
and  looked  out  toward  and  over 
the  Palatine  Hill.     The  levelled 
old   citadel   was  red  with  roses 
and  flowers.     The   air    was    filled   with 
odors  from,  the   opening  buds  and  blos 
soms  of   spring.     It   was  as  if   summer 
had  come  while  he  slept,  and  sat    down 
in  Rome  to  remain. 
The  air  was  so  soft,  and  rich,  and  sweet,  that  you  could 
fairly  feed  upon  it,  and  be  glad  and  satisfied.     The  day  was 
perfect  as  love. 

Away  to  the  west  some  clouds,  as  white  as  the  Alpine  tops 
to  where  they  tended,  were  drawing  into  shore  across  the  sea 
from  Africa,  and  stretching  out  in  long  still  caravans  across 


Saturn  sailing  down  the   Tiber.        231 

the  blue  untroubled  sky,  as  if  they  were  bringing  oil  and 
spices  across  some  desert,  like  merchants  of  the  olden  time. 

The  artist  was  glad  and  light  of  heart  in  spite  of  himself. 
A  bird  was  calling  from  a  cypress  tree  above  his  window, 
and  he  answered  back  and  then  shouted  to  the  boys  below, 
who  halloaed  in  return,  and  bade  himcoine  forth  and  enjoy 
the  Carnival  in  Rome. 

On  the  rocky  and  ugly  steps,  a  little  way  below,  and  just 
underneath  the  little  image  of  the  Madonna  with  the  per 
petual  lamp  at  her  feet,  was  a  little  level  spot  barely  broad 
enough  for  two  persons  to  turn  around  in.  Four  beautiful 
brown  girls  were  dancing  there,  and  throwing  their  arms 
loose  from  their  loosened  robes,  and  laughing  and  tossing  back 
their  glory  of  hair,  and  showing  their  pearly  teeth,  as  they 
kept  time  to  the  tamborine,  which  a  gallant  troubadour  in  a 
brigand's  hat  and  feather  beat  and  jingled  as  he  sat  on  a  wall 
above  them,  with  his  sandalled  feet  dangling  down  in  the  sun. 

An  old  woman  hobbled  by  in  a  mask  with  a  cat  on  her 
shoulder ;  a  man  shouted  out  his  wares,  and  rattled  a  bell, 
and  danced  as  he  did  so,  and  made  a  very  awkward  combina 
tion  of  pleasure  and  business. 

It  was  evident  that  it  was  Carnival  time  in  Home.  The 
spirit  of  revelry  and  mirth  had  reached  even  these  miserable 
people  in  this  miserable  part  of  the  city,  and  the  artist  was 
all  curiosity  to  see  what  it  might  now  be  in  the  Corso,  the 
great  heart  vein  and  artery  of  the  city. 

Looking  out  on  the  blossoming  hills,  breathing  this  soft 
sweet  air  that  had  blown  in  across  the  sea  from  Africa,  see 
ing  the  mirth  and  merry-making  about  him,  Murietta  could 
very  well  understand  how  that,  away  back  on  the  far  dim  edge 
of  Time,  in  the  world's  beginning,  the  wild  people  of  the 
Campagna  and  the  Sabine  Hills  on  this  day  rose  up  in  a  bodv, 
and  beat  drums,  and  sang,  and  danced  with  delight  under 
the  cork  trees  on  the  sunny  hill  side,  and  thus  laid  the  cor 
ner-stone  for  the  Carnival  of  the  Christians. 


232  The  One  Fair    Woman. 

It  seemed  impossible  that  any  one  should  be  sad,  or  even 
be  silent,  and  refuse  to  give  thanks  and  be  glad  in  this  morn 
ing  of  sudden  summer. 

The  artist  hastily  drank  his  coffee,  threw  his  great  cloak 
over  one  shoulder,  as  is  the  custom  of  Latin  countries,  and 
let  it  swing  to  the  ground.  He  brushed  back  his  long  yellow 
hair,  then  went  up  to  the  little  looking-glass  and  arranged 
his  brown  moustache  in  a  gallant  and  becoming  twirl.  What 
a  wonderful  elasticity  there  is  in  the  air  of  a  full-blown  and 
sudden  spring ! 

The  cock  that  has  been  careless  half  a  season  with  his 
feathers,  now  mounts  his  dunghill,  and  plumes  himself  in 
the  sun,  and  challenges  the  admiration  of  the  world.  The 
wildest  beast  in  the  forest  at  such  a  time  smooths  down  his 
hairy  coat,  and  contemplates  his  visage  in  the  water  when  he 
drinks  in  the  sun. 

The  peasants  had  been  pouring  in  from  the  Campagiia 
through  the  gate  of  Saint  Paul  since  dawn  ;  many  of  them 
had  fowls  in  baskets,  fruits  in  leaves  and  grass,  early  vege 
tables,  and  dried  meats  to  sell  to  the  multitudes  of  the  old 
Jew  quarter  of  the  city. 

Every  inch  of  the  streets  seemed  occupied.  And  yet  you 
could  make  your  way  with  but  little  trouble.  On  one  side 
of  the  street  the  stream  poured  in  one  direction,  while  on  the 
other  side  it  poured  in  the  other,  so  that  yoxi  had  only  to 
fall  in  on  the  proper  side,  and  you  would  be  borne  along 
whether  you  willed  it  or  no,  almost  as  fast  as  your  legs  could 
follow. 

Omnibuses,  asses,  carriages,  footmen,  and  footwomen  ;  beg 
gars  and  men  in  masks ;  princes  coming  to  see  the  poor  in 
the  Jew  quarter,  and  the  poor  of  the  Jew  quarter  011  their 
•way  to  the  Corso  to  see  the  princes.  What  a  medley  it  was, 
and  what  a  tumult ! 

Every  man  laughed  and  every  woman  smiled.  Women 
trod  on  men's  toes,  and  men  chucked  women  under  the  chin, 


Saturn  sailing  down  the   Tiber.        233 

but  no  one  cried  out  or  complained  in  the  least,  for  no  one  is 
allowed  to  get  angry  in  Caraival.  Besides  that,  it  is  con 
sidered  a  bad  omen.  The  tradition  and  prophecy  among  the 
peasants  is  to  the  effect  that  the  man  who  is  angry  in  Car 
nival  will  die  before  the  end  of  the  year,  and  the  woman  who 
is  cross  shall  have  no  children. 

At  last,  borne  along  with,  and  almost  on,  this  strong  stream 
of  happy  people,  the  artist  reached  the  Piazza  of  the  Twelve 
Apostles.  It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock  by  the  sun-dial  on  the 
palace  of  the  Colonnas. 

At  twelve  o'clock  he  had  promised  to  be  with  the  Count 
ess.  But  then  he  had  promised  himself  last  night  that  he 
would  see  her  no  more.  He  stopped  and  began  to  consider. 
In  one  case  he  had  made  a  promise  to  another,  to  a  woman. 
But  then  he  had  made  that  promise  hastily  and  without  re 
flection.  In  the  other  case  he  had  made  the  promise  only  to 
himself.  But  then  this  promise  he  had  made  with  due  de 
liberation,  and  he  even  now  was  certain  that  it  was  right  and 
wisely  made,  and  should  be  manfully  kept. 

But  then,  to  break  a  promise  with  a  lady!  The  long  thin 
shadow  on  the  sun-dial  was  drawing  sharp  and  close  upon  the 
last  minute. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  Murietta,  pushing  back  his  hat  and 
pulling  at  his  moustache  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  is  greatly 
perplexed.  "  If  I  go  I  shall  be  no  better  off,  but  possibly  a 
great  deal  worse  :  and  besides,  I  shall  have  broken  a  promise 
with  myself.  If  I  do  not  go,  I  shall  at  all  events  have  a  pleas 
ant  day  of  it,  shall  be  safe  and  secure,  and  shall  have " 

he  pulled  at  his  moustache  very  vigorously,  and  as  if  getting 
excited,  "and  shall  have  broken — a — promise — with — a — 
lady." 

He  said  this  slowly  and  in  links,  as  if  to  hear  the  full  indig 
nity  of  it. 

The  dial  showed  that  he  stood  on  the  very  brink  of  twelve 
o'clock. 


234  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  If  I  do  not  go  ?  "  Then,  suddenly  he  started,  gathered 
up  his  cloak,  and  said,  almost  as  if  he  had  been  speaking  to 
the  crowd  that  poured  past  and  around  him,  "  What  have  I 
been  doing  ?  I  have  been  thinking  only  of  myself.  I  have 
only  been  thinking  what  good  or  what  ill,  what  pleasure  or 
what  displeasure  will  happen  to  myself  if  I  go  or  do  not  go 
with  this  beautiful  lady  who  has  so  kindly  otfered  me  a  seat 
at  her  side  to  see  the  Carnival.  Well,  then,  what  will  hap 
pen  to  her  if  T  go?  she  will  probably  enjoy  the  drive  and  the 
scene.  At  all  events  she  will  have  what  she  asked  and  what 
I  promised.  And  if  I  do  not  go  ?  Then  she  will  wait  and 
wait,  and  be  disappointed  and  displeased,  and  perhaps  not  go 
out  at  all,  and  miss  the  whole  scene  which  all  Rome  has  been 
looking  forward  to  with  such  intense  interest  and  concern." 

He  did  not  stand  there  to  finish  the  sentence.  The  long 
thin  shadow  on  the  high  white  wall  was  lying  flat  and  straight 
on  the  line  of  the  meridian. 

He  pressed  through  the  people,  laid  hold  of  men  and  women 
as  if  pulling  his  way  up  a  stream,  and  in  a  little  time  he  lifted 
his  hat  and  threw  back  his  cloak  before  the  beautiful  Count 
ess,  who  sat,  arrayed  in  pink  and  rose,  awaiting  him  in  her 
carriage  in  the  court  of  her  palace. 

She  did  not  speak.  She  only  smiled,  and  with  a  little, 
gloved  hand  drew  her  pink  robes  closer  to  her  side  as  Muri- 
etta  mounted  and  took  his  place  there  without  a  word. 

Little  Sunshine,  who  had  been  watching  the  doves  that 
flew  and  fluttered  and  cooed  about  the  court  as  if  having  a 
little  Carnival  of  their  own,  now  lifted  his  eyes  to  his  mother's. 
His  mother  smiled,  he  pulled  a  string  which  seemed  as  it 
might  have  been  one  of  the  heart-strings  of  the  man  on  the 
box,  and  then  the  man  on  the  box  elbowed  the  great,  fat, 
senatorial  looking  Roman  who  held  the  reins,  and  the  car 
riage  rumbled  out  and  over  the  stones  of  Rome,  through  the 
Porto  Populo  toward  the  Ponte  Malo. 

What  crowds  of  people  !     What  good-natured  peasants,  and 


Saturn  sailing  down  the   Tiber.        235 

what  gallant  princes  and  gentlemen  on  horseback  !  What 
handsome  lady-like  soldiers  in  gorgeous  uniforms,  and  what 
manly-looking  women  from  the  foot-hills  of  the  Alps,  with 
their  brown  faces  and  their  braided  hair ;  fit  mothers  of 
Romans  when  Rome  was  Rome. 

How  these  peasants  huddled  together  and  kept  in  groups 
by  themselves !  The  Italian  seems  to  fear  no  one  half  so 
much  as  he  does  the  Italian.  Perhaps  it  is  because  of  their 
old  feuds  that  went  on  for  ages.  Perhaps  it  is  because  he 
knows  him  best. 

Both  sides  of  the  turbid,  yellow  Tiber  were  lined  above  the 
bridge  for  miles  by  people,  mostly  peasants,  each  party  or 
band  from  each  particular  village  or  district  keeping  close  to 
gether,  looking  eagerly  up  the  river,  waiting  for  the  great 
gold  barges  with  silver  oars  that  were  to  bear  Saturn  and 
King  Pasquino  down  the  Tiber  to  the  golden  chariot  that 
stood  there  with  its  ten  white  oxen  waiting  to  drive  them 
and  their  suite  to  the  city  of  Rome. 

By  begging  the  peasants,  bantering  the  maskers  and  gentle 
men,  and  bribing  the  policemen,  Murietta  managed  to  get 
the  carriage  driven  to  the  very  keystone  of  the  bridge.  Here, 
drawn  to  one  side,  they  waited  the  descent  of  Saturn,  who 
was  to  bring  from  his  winter  palace  of  ice  in  the  Alps  the 
authority  of  the  gods  to  King  Pasquino  the  Second  to  open 
the  Carnival  in  Rome. 

About  two  o'clock  puffs  of  smoke  were  seen  to  rise  from 
away  up  the  crooked  Tiber,  and  as  the  barges  turned  a  point 
and  hove  in  sight,  the  cannon  on  the  banks  of  the  Tiber 
boomed,  the  bands  played  martial  airs,  and  the  people  threw 
their  hats  in  the  air  and  shouted  and  danced  and  danced  and 
shouted  with  wild  excitement  and  delight. 

At  first,  and  when  far  off,  the  effect  was  beautiful.  All 
banners  of  all  nations  floated  in  the  summer  wind  that  blew 
tip  the  Tiber  as  if  to  welcome  them,  and  the  barges  glistened 
in  the  sun  as  if  they  were  sheeted  in.  gold. 


236  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

As  they  drew  neai-,  however,  you  began  to  see  that  these 
barges  were  only  ugly  old  flat  boats  used  for  carrying  stones 
and  wood  down  the  river,  and  that  the  gold  was  only  brass- 
foil,  which  was  now  breaking  away  and  blowing  and  floating 
off  as  they  eddied  about  in  the  swift  stream  and  struck  the 
sandy  shore  and  attempted  in  vain  to  land. 

The  people  shouted  and  laughed,  the  cannon  boomed  no 
more,  the  musicians  threw  their  instruments  up  above  their 
heads  and  screamed  with  excitement,  as  Saturn  stood  there 
in  his  tinsel  and  paper  crown,  helpless,  and  half  afraid  of 
being  overturned  and  drowned  in  the  Tiber. 

At  last  a  rope  was  reached  and  made  fast  to  the  shore. 
The  great  gold  barge  was  tied  up,  a  plank  was  slipped  down 
the  steep  bank,  and  the  god,  sceptre  in  hand,  attempted  to 
walk  to  land,  but  stumbled  and  fell,  and  lost  his  crown  in 
the  attempt. 

The  rabble  fumed  and  hissed  again.  The  musicians  broke 
off  in  the  middle  of  a  triumphal  march,  and  again  flashed 
their  bright  instruments  in  the  sun  above  their  heads. 

Somehow,  Saturn  clambered  up  again,  and  his  crown  was 
fished  out  of  the  river,  and  soiled  and  dripping,  was  restored 
once  more  to  his  head ;  but  he  seemed  to  have  hurt  himself 
in  the  fall,  for  they  had  to  help  him  to  his  high  place  in  the 
centre  of  the  Four  Seasons  on  the  top  of  the  great  golden 
car,  which  was  made  out  of  brass  foil  and  wall  paper  and  very 
weak  and  rickety  timber. 

There  were  four  bronze  lions  set  at  the  corners  of  this  car, 
and  a  handsome  body-guard  of  boys  dressed  as  Amazons  kept 
guard  around  the  sacred  person  of  Saturn  as  he  sat  there 
with  his  flowing  beard  and  battered  paper  crown  in  the 
centre  of  the  Four  Seasons. 

This  great  car  was  to  be  followed  by  King  Pasquino  the 
Second ;  who,  in  acknowledgement  of  the  authority  of 
Saturn,  was  to  come  after  him  in  a  less  gorgeous,  but  fortu- 


Saturn  sailing  down  the   Tiber.        237 

nately  more  substantial  conveyance.  The  king  was  drawn 
by  asses. 

All  being  ready,  and  the  monarchs  being  seated  with  their 
crowns  firmly  fixed,  the  cannon  boomed  again,  the  musicians 
began  their  march,  and  the  ten  white  oxen,  each  led  by  a 
Roman  in  the  old  days  of  the  first  Csesar,  began  to  move, 
and  the  procession  of  a  dozen  cars,  each  bearing  some  impor 
tant  personage  supposed  to  be  connected  with  the  opening  of 
the  Carnival,  was  on  its  way  to  the  walls  of  Rome. 

The  Four  Seasons  scattered  flowers  and  fruit  and  bread 
and  nuts  to  the  thousands  who  stood  on  either  side  the  long 
dusty  road  that  reached  to  the  gate  of  the  city, 

The  King  Pasquirio  had  announced  that  the  good  guardian 
angel  who  stood  at  the  back  of  his  throne,  on  his  high  car, 
would  scatter  money  in  vast  quantities  to  the  people  who 
followed  his  car  and  his  fortunes  on  the  triumphal  march  to 
the  city. 

But  the  good  guardian  angel  seemed  to  get  sea  sick,  as  the 
rickety  car  rocked  from  side  to  side  and  threatened  to  upset, 
and  after  a  few  seconds  she  sat  down  quite  out  of  sight,  and 
a  man  in  the  crowd  shouted  out  that  she  was  putting  the 
money  all  up  her  sleeve. 

The  good-natured  officers  of  the  day  assisted  the  carriages 
to  turn  and  fall  in  line  behind  the  slow  and  ludicrous  pro 
cession,  headed  by  the  ten  white  oxen  ;  and  Murietta  and  the 
Countess  in  pink  and  rose  were  on  their  way  back  to  Rome. 

All  day  she  had  been  silent :  perhaps  she  had  not  said  ten 
words.  There  was  a  sort  of  audacity  and  indifference  in  this 
that  puzzled  him ;  yet  it  pleased  him  above  everything  else. 
Nothing  would  have  interested  him  so  much  as  this.  Had 
she  talked  with  the  wit  of  a  clown  or  the  wisdom  of  a  sage 
he  had  grown  weary  of  her :  as  it  was,  he  was  more  interested 
than  ever.  She  had  promised  revelations  ;  but  now  that  she 
had  an  opportunity  to  reveal,  she  was  as  silent  as  if  she  had 
been  marble. 


238  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

The  procession  moved  but  slo\vly.  The  Carnival  was 
growing  monotonous.  At  last  one  of  the  bronze  lions  at  the 
corner  of  Saturn's  car  fell  to  the  ground.  The  dreadful 
beast  had  only  been  made  of  hair  and  plaster,  and  as  this 
had  not  yet  been  thoroughly  dried,  he  could  not  stand  on  his 
feet  for  all  the  day,  and  so  broke  quite  down  and  tumbled 
off  to  the  ground  and  was  broken  in  bits  as  he  fell. 

This  stopped  the  procession  for  a  time,  and  carnages  were 
allowed  to  pass  on. 

Our  little  party  availed  itself  of  this  opportunity,  and  shot 
by  and  took  up  position  among  the  tens  of  thousands  who 
stood  in  the  great  plaza  of  the  people  just  inside  the  walls  of 
Rome,  waiting  for  the  great  procession. 

The  fountains  played  and  sparkled  in  the  sun.  Banners 
floated  from  a  thousand  house-tops  and  towers,  and  all  the 
Corso  was  one  perfect  flower-bank  of  flags  and  scarfs  and 
ensigns  and  banners  brought  from  every  land,  and  now  let 
loose  to  float  and  flutter  from  the  windows  and  balconies  of 
those  who  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  secure  places  in  this 
one  favoured  street  of  Rome. 

At  last  the  procession  came  to  the  gates,  demanded  tho 
keys,  received  them,  and  attempted  to  enter.  But  alas  !  for 
the  calculations  of  the  Italian  architect  who  had  constructed 
the  car !  The  flagstaff  of  Saturn  struck  against  the  lofty 
arch  of  the  great  gate,  and  stuck  there,  and  stopped  the  pro 
cession  just  when  it  began  to  assume  an  air  of  solemnity  and 
importance. 

At  this  critical  period,  one  of  the  Four  Seasons  somehow 
got  hold  of  an  axe,  and,  climbing  up,  cut  down  the  flagstaff 
and  lowered  the  banner,  and  let  the  procession  pass  on,  as  she 
resumed  her  seat,  and  began  solemnly  to  scatter  roasted 
chestnuts  to  the  ragged  children  about  the  wheels  of  the  car. 

Here  the  procession  formed  anew,  and  redoubled  its  force 
and  importance.  A  great  pasteboard  elephant — representing 
the  one  division  of  the  world — led  off  after  the  car  of  Saturn 


Saturn  sailing  down  the  Tiber.        239 

and  the  king,  and  this  was  followed  by  an  enormous  hump 
backed  camel,  made  also  of  pasteboard  for  this  occasion  only, 
and  drawn  on  wheels,  with  a  Turk  or  Arab  in  a  turban  sit 
ting  on  his  back,  leisurely  smoking  his  pipe.  Europe  came 
next  as  a  cow,  and  America  fell  in  line  in  the  form  of  a 
buffalo. 

How  happy  were  the  people  of  Rome !  —  this  race  of 
children  !  Old  men  were  merry  as  boys  in  a  hayfield ;  and 
old  women  made  eyes  at  men  as  if  they  were  young  again, 
and  were  once  more  belles  and  queens  of  the  Corso  in  the 
good  old  times  when  the  kings  came  to  masquerade  and  take 
part  in  the  Carnivals  of  the  Holy  Father. 

The  procession  had  wound  like  a  long  serpent  from  the 
broad  square,  and  down  its  length  through  the  Corso.  The 
king  had  proclaimed  the  Carnival  begun  in  Rome ;  and  the 
people  were  running  by  on  foot  and  in  crowds  throwing  con 
fetti,  and  riding  by  on  horses  with  bags  of  the  vile  stuff  at 
their  sides  and  saddle-bows ;  and  parties  in  carriages  behind 
with  masks,  with  basketsful  before  them,  were  driving  by 
like  mad,  and  throwing  confetti  right  and  left  on  every  one 
in  reach. 

The  countess  endured  this  for  some  time,  and  little  Sun 
shine  laughed  at  this  strange  diversion  of  this  childish  people. 

At  last  she  said,  "  We  will  drive  home,"  and  drove  up  by 
the  way  of  the  Pincian.  Hill  to  escape  the  crowd  and  confetti. 

"And  you  do  not  like  the  Carnival?  "  said  Murietta,  look 
ing  inquiringly  at  her. 

"  ISTot  this  throwing  of  dirt !  Mercy  !  that  people  should 
find  diversion  in  throwing  dirt !  " 

"  But,"  laughed  Murietta,  "  there  are  people  who  spend 
all  their  time  in  throwing  dirt.  Perhaps  this  is  an  open  il 
lustration  of  life." 

"  Well,  I  do  not  like  it,  whatever  it  may  mean.  I  see  but 
two  parties  here :  one  to  throw  the  dirt,  the  other  to  receive 
it.  If  this  is  one  of  the  good  things  that  the  old  popes 


240  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

brought  in  use  for  Italy,  why  then  I  pity  Italy  and  am 
ashamed  for  the  popes." 

The  sun  was  setting  behind  St.  Peter's  and  the  air  was 
falling  damp  and  chill  as  they  climbed  the  hill  amid  a  stream 
of  carriages  pouring  up  and  down,  and  Murietta  did  not  an 
swer,  but  gathered  his  cloak  about  him  and  began  to  look  at 
the  carriages  full  of  fair  women  as  they  flew  past. 

Suddenly  a  carriage,  with  two  black  men  on  the  box,  hav 
ing  two  ladies,  came  dashing  down  the  hill  and  passed  our 
party. 

Murietta  threw  up  his  hands  to  his  face,  pushed  back  his 
hat,  and  almost  rose  from  his  seat.  It  was  Annette,  the  One 
Fair  Woman. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 


IN  A   BAD   ATMOSPHERE. 


HE  Belle  of  Rome !  "  cried 
the  Countess,  suddenly  grow 
ing  animated,  and  turning  to 
Murietta  as  she  spoke. 

"The  Beauty  of  Rome!" 
answered  Murietta  warmly. 
"  Do  you  know  her  ?  " 
"  Know  the  lady  !  I  have 
known  her  a  thousand  years !  " 
"  O,  in  the  time  of  the  Caesars ! 
Why  not   say    in    the    time   of  the 
Caesars  ?     Say,  for  example,  that  you 
met  her   at  the  ball  given    by  the 
wife  of  citizen  Brutus,  to  celebrate 
the    opening    of   the    Appian  Way, 
and  so  on." 

"  Well,"  snid  Murietta,  coldly,  "  since  you  are  so  exact 
about  the  matter,  I  am  bound  to  confess  the  truth,  and  to 
tell  you  that  I  do  not  know  her  at  all ;  or  at  least,  that  she 
does  not  know  me." 

"  Are  you  certain  that  you  are  not  romancing  ?  "     One  of 
the  pretty  little  pink  fingers  in  a  little  pink  glove  was  rolling 
itself  up  like  a  silkworm  in  the  tassels  of  a  scrape  shawl  as 
11 


242  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

she  said   this,  and  the  lips  pouted  out  saucily,  and  the  lady 
colored  to  the  brows. 

"  I  am  certain  that  she  does  not  recognize  me,  and  I  can 
only  add  in  all  candor  that  I  am  sorry  that  she  does  not, 
and  am  covered  with  shame  and  confusion,  for  I  have  fol 
lowed  her  as  faithfully  as  night  follows  day,  and — " 

lie  stopped  then  suddenly,  and  bit  his  lips. 

The  color  went  from  the  face  of  the  beautiful  Countess 
only  for  an  instant.  Then,  turning  to  Marietta,  she  laid  her 
little  hand  on  his  arm,  gently,  very  gently,  scarcely  touching 
it,  and  looking  in  his  face  so  earnestly,  so  sadly,  so  full  of 
soul,  she  said — 

"  I  comprehend,  I  understand  you  ;  I  understand  you  per 
fectly  ;  and,  Mr.  Murietta,  listen  to  me  and  believe  me :  I, 
too,  am  sorry  ;  very,  very  sorry." 

"  Hist !  soft !  Her  name  is  sacred,  lady.  Remember,  I 
said  I  knew  nothing  of  her  whatever.  I  have  never  spoken 
to  her  one  word.  The  admission  that  I  have  made  is  my 
own.  It  is  also  my  own  secret.  If  I  have  followed  her  and 
worshipped  her,  it  has  not  been  her  fault  in  anywise  whatever. 
Remember  that !  Remember  that !  Her  name,  somehow,  is 
sacred.  Her  good  name  and  her  fair  fame,  her  purity  of 
heart,  her  charity,  her  truth,  her  nobility  of  nature,  that 
would  forbid  her  to  encourage  for  one  .moment  a  passion  that 
she  could  not  entertain,  must  never  be  questioned.  She  never 
so  much  as  spoke  to  me,  or  even  smiled  in  my  presence." 

"  Please  don't  be  mysterious,"  pleaded  the  Countess. 

"  But  I  am  only  trying  fo  be  plain." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  But  you  said  you  understood  perfectly." 

I  do  not  understand  a  nature  and  a  sentiment  like  that." 
The  pretty  little  pink  finger  was  wound  tight  as  a  silkworm 
in  its  shroud,  and  the  great  brown  eyes  full  of  melancholy 
lifted  and  looked  with  earnestness  and  inquiry  into  the  face 
of  Murietta. 


In  a  Bad  Atmosphere.  243 

The  carriage  had  turned  into  the  court,  and  stopped  at  the 
foot  of  the  great  stairway,  while  the  footman  stood  holding 
open  the  door  for  them  to  descend. 

"  You  will  dine  with  us  to  day  ?  " 

«  No." 

"  You  will  at  least  come  in  and  have  a  glass  of  wine  ?  " 

The  artist  gave  the  lady  his  arm ;  little  Sunshine  ran  up 
the  steps  holding  on  to  the  footman's  hand,  and  the  senato 
rial  Roman  on  the  box  snapped  his  silk,  and  lifting  his  finger 
to  his  hat,  trundled  over  the  stones  and  was  gone. 

The  doors  of  the  old  palace  were  massive  and  old,  and 
rusty  as  the  doors  of  a  prison.  A  whole  army  might  be  held 
at  bay  for  ever  so  long  by  one  of  these  doors,  built  in  the 
middle  ages  out  of  crossed  beams  of  oak,  and  crossed  bars 
of  iron  and  bolts  of  copper  and  plates  of  brass. 

There  was  a  smell  of  tobacco  smoke  as  they  entered  the 
ante-camera,  and  from  beyond  there  came  the  shouts  of  many 
voices,  as  if  men  were  at  wine  in  a  wayside  inn. 

The  Countess  tried  to  pass  this  tumult  by  with  the  remark 
that  the  Count  and  his  friends  were  having  their  Carnival  in 
the  palace  instead  of  on  the  Corso,  but  she  looked  very  much 
troubled,  and  her  brow  gathered  with  care  and  anxiety. 

They  entered  the  great  saloon,  gorgeous  with  mirrors  and 
paintings,  and  set  all  around  by  little  forests  of  flowers,  and 
pleasant  to  the  feet  with  its  voluptuous  carpets. 

To  the  delight  and  relief  of  Murietta,  here  they  came 
upon  Carlton,  the  American  artist  and  poet  we  have  before 
met  in  Naples.  He  was  hidden  away  in  a  corner  like  a  her 
mit,  devouring  a  book,  and  as  if  he  was  trying  to  get  out  of 
sight  and  hearing  of  the  terrible  din  of  voices  back  yonder 
somewhere  in  the  depths  of  the  palace. 

The  beautiful  Countess,  with  her  brows  gathered  in  trouble, 
left  the  two  gentlemen  together,  and  taking  her  little  boy  by 
the  hand,  passed  on  through  the  great  saloon  into  the  little 
rotunda  we  have  before  visited. 


244  The   One  Fair   Woman. 

Carl  ton  was  a  shy,  cautious  man,  with  some  of  the  look 
and  manner,  and,  some  said,  with  all  the  cunning  of  a  Catho 
lic  priest  of  the  most  zealous  order. 

"  I  have  come  here  to  dine  with  the  Count,"  be<*an  Carlton 

y  o 

cautiously,  as  he  flipped  the  leaves  of  his  book  backwards 
and  forwards,  "  and  I  have  seen  the  strangest  man  !  " 

"  Well  !  the  strangest  man  ought  to  be  very  interesting,  at 
all  events,"  laughed  the  artist. 

"  But  he  does  not  interest  me,  I  assure  you ;  he  sets  my 
teeth  on  edge.  I  am  afraid  of  him." 

"Heavens!  you  talk  like  a  man  who  finds  himself  among 
the  banditti  of  the  Alps." 

"  No,  I  am  not  afraid  the  man  will  murder  me — nothing 
like  that ;  only  he  gives  me  the  shivers ;  and  if  I  could  I 
should  so  like  to  get  out  of  the  house  and  awav  from  the 
presence  and  hearing  of  that  man,  for  he  is  my  evil  genius." 

"  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  does  he  persecute  you  ?  "  asked 
the  artist  kindly. 

No,  no,  I  can  hardly  understand.  I  certainly  cannot  ex 
plain.  I  only  know  that  he  strikes  me  with  terror  when  he 
talks,  and  almost  drives  me  wild  when  he  laughs ;  and  this 
terrible  man  is  to  dine  here.  That  is  him  now." 

The  two  men  listened  to  the  uproar  in  the  depths  of  the 
palace,  and  the  voice  of  one  man  rose  above  the  tumult  like 
the  trumpet  of  a  sea-captain  in  a  storm. 

"  Why,  that  is  the  voice  of  the  Admiral,"  said  Murietta. 

"  I  don't  care  who  it  is,  that  man  is  my  evil  genius.  He 
absorbs  me,  he  takes  my  strength.  Perhaps  I  shall  have  to 
sit  by  him  at  dinner." 

"  Mercy,  man  !  are  you  afraid  he  will  eat  you  ?  Come,  if 
it  comes  to  that,  I  shall  dine  here  also,  and  we  will  see  what 
idle  fancies  you  poets  cherish." 

"  JSTo,  it  is  not  an  idle  fancy.  That  man  has  blood  on  his 
hands,  and  that  man  will  die  a  violent  death." 

"  Carlton,  you  have  a  reputation  for  prudence  and  caution  j 


In  a  Bad  Atmosphere.  245 

but  to-day  you  are  perfectly  reckless  in  your  remarks.  The 
old  sailor,  a  sort  of  ugly  sea-dog,  is  of  course  vulgar  and  hard- 
natured,  but  as  for  there  being  blood  on  his  hands,  that  is  a 
thing  that  is  hard  on  him  to  assert  and  would  be  hard  on 

O 

yourself  to  prove." 

"  You  are  right,  Murietta.  But  I  will  tell  you  what  may 
be  proved,  and  what  time  will  testify  to." 

"Well?" 

"  That  man  will  die  a  violent  death." 

"Are  you  mad,  or  are  you  talking  only  for  your  own 
amusement  ?  " 

"  Neither,  I  trust.  You  see,  Murietta,"  said  Carlton, 
coming  close  up  to  his  friend  and  laying  his  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  and  looking  slowly  and  cautiously  around,  as  poets 
are  sometimes  seen  to  do.  "you  see  violent  men,  men  of 
marked  and  savage  individuality,  often  have  their  future 
written  in  their  faces,  and  it  is  given  to  some  men  of  a  very 
sensitive  composition,  to  read  them  as  prophecies.  That  man 
will  be  hanged  !  " 

lie  shrank  back,  and  holding  up  the  book  in  his  other  hand, 
began  to  look  through  the  leaves  hurriedly;  but  his  face  was 
red,  and  flushed  as  if  it  would  set  the  leaves  on  fire. 

The  Admiral  had  entered  from  a  door  behind  a  screen,  and 
was  upon  them  even  as  Carlton  spoke.  He  reeled  and  rolled 
as  if  he  walked  the  deck  of  a  ship  in  a  storm.  The  Admiral 
was  drunk. 

The  Count  was  with  him,  close  up  by  his  side,  near  him,  as 
a  sort  of  shadow. 

The  Admiral  came  up,  slapped  Carlton  on  the  shoulder  with 
his  hard  horny  hand,  shook  hands  with  both  the  artists,  rolled 
his  big  heavy  head  from  one  shoulder  to  the  other,  and  talked 
and  bantered  in  a  loud  and  boisterous  manner. 

The  Count  was  veiy  quiet  and  very  friendly.  This  annoyed 
Murietta.  Had  be  been  a  stranger  to  the  Latin  race  and  the 
nature  of  this  distinct  people,  he  had  not  been  either  sur- 


1246  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

i 

prised  or  displeased  at  this  friendliness ;  on  the  contrary,  he 
had  been  delighted,  and  would  have  concluded  that  these  men 
had  found  out,  and  admitted  to  themselves,  that  they  were 
wrong  in  the  little  scene  at  St.  Peter's,  and  were  now  willing 
to  admit  as  much  by  their  actions,  without  going  into  the  un 
pleasant  task  of  a  formal  acknowledgment  to  Murietta. 
But  he  knew  that  the  pride  of  these  people  never  allows  them 
to  confess  themselves  in  the  wrong.  He  knew  that  they 
never  forget  or  forgive.  He  knew  that  the  little  scene  in  St. 
Peter's  was  uppermost  in  their  minds,  even  as  they  smiled 
and  made  him  welcome  to  the  palace. 

Had  the  Countess  appeared,  he  had  taken  his  leave,  and 
been  very  glad  to  get  away.  As  it  was,  he  sauntered  about 
the  saloon  with  Carlton  after  the  two  men,  who  had  forced  a 
reluctant  consent  from  him  to  remain  to  dinner,  had  returned 
to  their  boon  companions,  and  talked  of  the  pictures  and  the 
palace. 

"  What  a  display  of  wealth,"  said  Carlton ;  "  there  is 
enough  hanging  on  every  one  of  these  four  walls  to  make  a 
little  fortune." 

"  And  where  does  it  come  from  ?  "  queried  Murietta  of  his 
friend.  "  These  Italians  as  a  rule  are  so  very  poor." 

"  Where  does  it  come  from  ? "  echoed  Carlton,  turning 
sharply  to  Murietta  as  they  stood  before  a  Titian ;  "  from 
America — from  our  country." 

"  No  !  " 

"  Every  sou  of  it.  That  Count,  like  all  other  foreign  counts, 
is  a  beggai',  of  course,  like  the  whole  crew  he  has  about  him." 

"  But  do  you  really  know  these  men  he  has  about  him  ? 
You  must  remember  we  are  to  dine  with  those  men." 

"  Yes,  we  are  to  dine  with  them  ;  and,  mark  me,  I  tell  you 
if  they  were  only  beggars  I  should  not  care.  They  are  a  deal 
worse  than  beggars."  The  poet  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
pointed  out  some  special  point  of  beauty  in  the  old  Titian 
before  them,  and  passed  on  to  another  picture. 


In  a  Bad  Atmosphere.  247 

Murietta  was  somehow  very  glad  to  know  that  all  this 
wealth  was  that  of  the  Countess  in  pink  and  rose.  This  at 
least  would  keep  her  from  dependence  on  those  around  her, 
and  would  in  all  reason  ensure  her  some  liberty  of  action  and 
some  repose  and  peace  of  mind. 

He  tried  to  recall  any  allusion  she  had  made  to  this  matter, 
but  could  not.  On  this  subject,  as  well  as  that  of  her  alleged 
malady  and  misfortune,  and  the  good  or  ill  behaviour  of  the 
Count,  she  had  been  as  silent  as  possible.  Her  soul,  it  seemed 
to  him,  had  always  risen  above  these  things.  He  could  now 
see  how  she  had  been  lashed  to  fury,  as  in  St.  Peter's,  and 
wild  words  and  expressions  sometimes  forced  from  her  un 
willing  lips,  that  were  closed  and  silent  again  as  soon  as  she 
had  escaped  and  was  free. 

The  door  of  the  beautiful  little  room,  which  we  have  seen 
before,  opened,  and  the  maid  stepped  up  to  Murietta,  after 
glancing  about  the  saloon  to  see  that  no  one  was  watching 
her,  and  said : 

"  Here  !  one  moment,  the  Countess." 

He  looked  at  Carlton,  and  then  hastily  passed  in  after  the 
maid. 

The  beautiful  woman  lay  there,  pale  and  prostrate  on  the 
sofa.  Her  gorgeous  robes  were  tumbled  about  her,  and  her 
dress  was  open  at  the  throat. 

A  dark  Italian  with  a  little  leathern  bag,  and  a  little  black 
retreating  moustache  stood  by  her  side,  and  leaned  above  her. 

Murietta  started  back.  How  did  this  man  get  into  the 
presence  of  the  Countess,  and  who  could  he  be  ? 

The  Countess  put  out  her  hand.  It  was  so  delicate,  so 
soft  and  beautiful.  It  had  all  the  tint  and  hue  of  a  pink 
shell  of  the  sea,  and  was  soft  and  sweet  as  a  full  blown  rose 
to  touch. 

"  I  am  ill,"  she  began  in  a  voice  as  low  and  tender  as  if 
she  spoke  to  an  infant.  "  I  am.  too  ill  to  join  you  at  dinner,  but 
you  will  stay,  and  you  will  come  again  and  as  soon  as  possible, 


248  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

for  it  is  lonesome  here,  and  Heaven  knows  when  I  shall  get 
out  of  the  palace  again.  There — go,  go,  and  do  not  let  them 
see  you,  or  let  them  know  that  you  have  been  here," 

She  beckoned  him  back  :  frowned  as  he  lingered,  and  threw 
out  her  hand  as  if  to  urge  him  through  the  door. 

Murietta,  all  breathless  and  embarrassed,  stepped  back  and 
through  the  door  as  he  had  been  directed,  and  as  he  did  so 
heard  a  strong  bolt  close  behind  him,  and  the  beautiful 
woman  lying  there  on  the  sofa,  like  a  pink  rose  full  blown 
and  gathered  in  the  hand  and  half  withered  in  the  sun,  was 
locked  and  bolted  in  the  saloon  with  the  dark  wicked  Italian 
doctor. 

Mnrietta  did  not  like  mystery.  To  him  there  was  enough 
that  was  incomprehensible  in  the  very  problem  of  life  and 
death  and  the  future  worlds,  and  it  annoyed  him  to  see 
enigmas  and  to  find  secrecy  where  it  seemed  to  him  there 
should  have  been  candor  and  simplicity. 

Carlton  had  taken  his  seat  on  the  sofa  in  a  retreat  behind 
a  little  forest  of  blossoming  rhododendrons,  and  was  again 
turning  the  leaves  of  the  book. 

"  Well,  and  have  you  been  into  the  secret  cave  in  search 
of  the  lamp  ?  " 

"  The  Countess  is  ill,"  said  Murietta  gravely,  "  and  will 
not  be  able  to  join  us  at  dinner." 

Here  the  Admiral  again  entered.  He  was  singing  a  loud 
sailor's  song,  and  he  seemed  to  be  walking  a  stormier  deck 
than  ever  before. 

There  was  the  sound  of  another  bolt  being  shot  behind  the 
door  that  led  from  the  grand  saloon  to  the  rotunda  where  the 
Countess  was  lying. 

The  Count  was  at  the  side  of  the  Admiral,  smiling  in  a  sort 
of  drunken  imbecility.  The  two  men  heard  the  bolt.  They 
went  up  to  the  door  and  the  Count  called  through  the  key 
hole.  Then  he  tapped  on  the  door  with  his  knuckles  and  put 
down  his  head  to  wait  for  an  answer.  Then  he  knocked 


In  a  Bad  Atmosphere.  249 

again  louder  than  before.  No  answer.  Then  the  Admiral 
called  in  a  voice  that  might  wake  the  dead.  Still  no  answer. 
At  this  the  Admiral  raised  his  two  hands  and  pounded  against 
the  door  of  the  room  where  lay  the  beautiful  lady,  ill,  as  if 
they  had  been  battering  rams.  No  answer.  He  waited  a 
moment  longer  and  then  drew  back  and  kicked  the  door  with 
'all  his  might. 

Here  the  Count  feebly  remonstrated. 

"  Teach  her  a  lesson,"  thundered  the  Admiral,  as  the  two 
men  turned  away  from  the  door,  and  came  towards  where  the 
artist  and  the  poet  sat  together,  indignant  witnesses  of  this 
scene. 

"  I  will  not  taste  his  bread,"  said  Murietta,  between  his 
teeth. 

"  As  to  that,"  answered  Carl  ton,  "  the  bread  is  not  his,  and 
we  can't  well  get  away  now." 

The  Count  came  forward  with  great  politeness  and  an 
nounced  that  dinner  was  waiting.  In  a  walk  of  half  a  minute 
across  the  great  saloon,  he  had  laid  off  the  rough  and  brutal 
behavior  just  exhibited  to  his  wife,  and  now  with  these 
strangers  was  only  civility  and  sweetness.  As  for  the  ad 
miral,  he  went  straight  on  into  the  dining-hall  and  sat  at  the 
table  and  talked  and  behaved  in  all  respects  like  a  savage  old 
Saxon  of  the  middle  ages,  and  as  if  not  only  all  this  palace 
but  all  of  Rome  was  his  special  property. 

There  were  at  least  a  dozen  men  present,  and  all  strangers, 
save  the  little  threadbare  Secretary  of  the  Legation  whom  he 
had  met  on  his  first  arrival  at  Rome.  As  for  the  others  of 
the  party,  they  were  mostly  after  the  type  and  manners  of 
the  Admiral,  and  all  seemed  to  look  up  to  him  as  a  sort  of 
leader. 

"  Are  these  men  really  beggars,"  said  Murietta  to  himself, 
as  he  took  a  seat  between  the  Secretary  and  Carlton, "  or  are 
they  a  band  of  brigands  ?  " 

Carlton  glanced  about  the  hall,  and  as  he  spread  his  nap- 
11* 


250 


The  One  Fair  Woman. 


kin  on  his  lap  said  to  Murietta,  in  a  low  voice  and  a  strange 
tongue,  "  There  is  a  closet  in  every  corner  of  this  hall,  and 
there  is  a  skeleton  in  every  closet." 


CHAPTEK  XXIX. 


EST,   EST,    EST. 


HE  Count,  with  a  singular  air 
of  gentleness,  deplored  the 
absence  of  the  Countess,  an 
nounced  to  the  company  thai 
she  was  ill,  and  then  the  ser 
vants  removed  the  silvel 
covers. 

The  dinner  was  a  splendid 
affair,  as  far  as  the  matter  of 
food   was    concerned,    and    the  men 
did  it  every  compliment. 

And  there  was  a  peculiar  wine.  It 
looked  like  gold  and  sunshine.  It 
tasted  like  nectar.  It  was  certainly 
a  drink  for  the  gods. 

This  wine  was  brought  on  the  table 
in  little  flagons  woven  and  bound  in 
The  flask  was  then  uncorked,  a  piece 
of  cotton  inserted  to  absorb  the  oil,  which  must  be  poiired  in 
upon  the  wine  to  preserve  it,  and  then  it  was  poured  into  the 
glass  and  drank  amid  the  praises  of  every  one  present. 

This  wine  was  new  to  Murietta,  and  the  Count  told  this 
story  concerning  it. 

Once  the  pope  desired  to  find  the  very  best  wines  in  Italy 


wicker-work  of  reeds. 


252  The   One  Fair    Woman. 

for  his  own  use,  and  with  that  object  sent  a  cardinal  to  tasto 
all  the  wine  through  the  vine-growing  countries  and  send  to 
him  such  as  he  deemed  best. 

This  cardinal  sent  before  him  some  good  old  priests,  whose 
experience  had  been  great,  and  whose  tastes  were  unquestion 
able,  to  dwell  in  the  villages  and  taste  of  the  wines,  and  have 
some  sort  of  selection  made  by  the  time  he  should  arrive,  so 
that  he  would  not  himself  have  to  taste  of  every  villainous 
drink  that  the  good  and  ever-zealous  wine  merchants  might 
see  fit  to  force  upon  him. 

The  cardinal  directed  them  to  write  on  that  brand  which 
they  found  good  the  one  Latin  word  JEst,  so  that  the  peasants 
and  wine  merchants  might  not  understand.  He  directed 
them  if  they  found,  by  any  good  fortune,  wine  that  was  par 
ticularly  excellent  they  should  write  Est^  est,  on  the  brand. 

Then  he  further  directed  them  that,  if,  by  the  mercy  of  God, 
they  should  come  upon  a  wine  that  was  wonderful  and  above 
all  other  wines,  and  such  as  the  gods  are  supposed  to  drink, 
they  should  write  Est^  esl,  est.  Then  giving  the  good  monks 
his  blessing,  the  cardinal  sent  them  forward,  and  soon  after 
followed  on  his  mission  as  the  holy  father  had  directed. 

For  years  and  years  the  good  monks  led  on  through  the 
vine  lands  of  the  Adriatic  coast,  the  Apennine  foot-hills,  and 
even  in  the  Alps,  and  found  much  that  was  excellent,  and  that 
delighted  the  palate  of  the  cardinal  who  followed  and  the 
pope  who  remained  in  Rome ;  but  they,  having  done  their 
work,  as  they  had  been  directed,  were  on  their  way  back  to 
the  Eternal  City,  and  were  even  almost  within  sight  of  the 
dome  of  St.  Peter's. 

Here  the  monks  dismounted  from  their  asses  and  taking 
their  staffs  in  hand,  after  selecting  one  of  their  number  to  re 
main  and  keep  off  with  the  curses  of  the  Church  any  brigands 
who  might  seek  to  carry  oft'  their  asses,  began  to  climb  up  a 
little  round  mountain  to  a  little  village  that  sat  perched  on 
the  top,  and  ask  for  hospitality. 


Est  Est  Est.  253 

The  good  peasants  were  only  too  glad  to  receive  the  merry 
fathers  whose  homes  were  in  Rome,  and  the  asses  were  soon 
dragged  up  the  mountain,  and  the  monks  seated  altogether 
around  a  course  of  choice  meats,  brown  bread,  and  a  wine  of 
the  most  beautiful  and  peculiar  colour. 

This  they  looked  at  with  distrust  for  some  time.  At  last 
a  very  fat  old  monk,  who  was  very  thirsty,  could  wait  no 
longer.  He  drew  the  cork,  and  inserting  a  corner  of  his  gray 
and  greasy  gown  to  absorb  the  oil,  he  filled  the  horns  which 
the  priests  had  been  quietly  loosening  from  the  hempen  cords 
around  their  waists. 

The  fat  monk  set  down  the  flagon,  unfastened  his  own  horn, 
took  up  the  flagon  again,  and  -now  the  horns  were  all  filled. 

And  the  monks  lifted  the  black  horns,  and  loooking  at  each 
other  with  half  closed  eyes  over  the  brims,  turned  the  wine 
to  their  lips. 

Then  they  set  down  their  horns,  and  tasted  and  tasted,  and 
smacked  their  lips  and  looked  at  each  other  with  their  eyes 
wide  open  and  bright  with  delight. 

Then  they  tasted  again.     Then  again  and  again  and  again. 

Then  the  leader  called  for  a  vote.  This  vote  was  always 
given  by  each  monk  turning  up  his  emptied  horn,  and,  un 
known  to  the  others,  and  without  having  asked  any  question 
or  expressing  any  opinion,  writing  his  verdict  on  the  bottom. 

Each  monk  wrote  in  silence.  Then  they  reached  to  the 
father  their  horns,  and  he  read  on  the  bottom  of  every  one 
this  verdict,  Est,  est,  est. 

They  asked  the  name  of  the  place,  and  the  peasants  said  it 
was  called  Montefiscaone.  In  time  they  went  down  to  the 
base  of  the  little  round  mountain  and  waited  for  the  cardinal, 
who  led  his  ass  to  the  village,  on  the  top  where  they  had  found 
this  wonderful  wine. 

The  cardinal  tasted  it  and  was  dumb  with  delight.  He 
sent  the  wine  to  Rome,  surrendered  his  high  place  in  the 
Church,  built  him  a  house  on  Montefiscaone,  made  his  will, 


254  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

and  there  he  lived  and  died,  and  there  he  is  buried  now,  with 
the  main  facts  of  this  story  written  on  his  tomb  and  a  flagon. 
of  JEst,  est,  est  at  his  feet. 

Murietta  liked  the  wine.  He  liked  the  story.  He  liked 
the  man's  manner  in  telling  it ;  for,  in  spite  of  his  surmisings, 
and  in  spite  of  some  very  strange  behavior  towards  the  Coun 
tess,  this  man  had  a  voice  and  a  manner  that,  contrasted  with 
that  of  the  Admiral,  was  strangely  gentle  and  winning. 

But  the  wine  could  not  revive  the  heart  of  Murietta,  or 
clear  his  mind  from  one  unpleasant  picture  of  that  evening. 
He  all  the  time  saw  the  beautiful  Countess  strewn  upon  the 
sofa  like  a  bouquet  of  soft  and  sweet-smelling  pinks  that 
were  withering  away  and  losing  their  fragrance  and  their 
beauty.  He  saw  the  black  wicked  little  man  beside  her,  and 
almost  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  him.  Then  he  saw  the 
Count,  half  drunk  at  such  a  time,  peering  in  through  the  key 
hole,  and*  then  heard  the  Admiral  thundering  at  the  door  of 
the  sick  woman,  and  hurling  his  insults  unrestrained. 

The  company  was  getting  boisterous,  and  the  two  strangers 
were  anxious  to  get  away.  Murietta  leaned  over  to  the 
Count,  who  was  now  the  mosb  sober,  as  he  was  always  the 
most  civil  of  all  those  he  had  around  him,  and  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  withdraw  unobserved. 

"  Certainly."  He  arose,  and  himself  saw  them  to  the  great 
door,  which  a  servant  laid  hold  of  with  both  hands  and  swung 
on  its  iron  hinges  with  great  effort. 

When  the  two  men  stood  once  mor«  in  the  streets  of 
Rome  they  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief  together. 

"  What  it  is  I  don't  know,"  said  Carlton,  as  they  shook 
hands  and  parted  ;  "  but  there  is  a  bad  atmosphere  in  that 
palace,  and  I  for  one  shall  never  enter  it  again,  though  the 
table  be  one  flowing  fountain  of  delicious  Est  est." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


CONFETTI  DAY  ON  THE  COKSO. 


OME  was  full,  even  up  to  high  tido 
mark,  and  the  peasants  were  still 
pouring  in  in  a  torrent  at  the  gate 
of  St.  Paul  when  the  artist  looked 
out  next  morning. 

The   sun  was  shining  bright  as 
the  day    before,   the  people   were 
dancing,  singing,  moving  to  and 
fro  in  gay  attire   and  with  joyful 
faces,  but  Murietta  was  not  glad. 
He  sat  down  before  his  picture  a 
long  time,  and  contemplated  it  in  silence  and 
in  sadness.      He  had  never  before  felt  how 
vast   and   insurmountable    was   the   world 
that  lay  between  himself  and  this  lady  he 
so  loved. 

And  why  had  he  loved  her  ?  Why  had 
he  been  made  to  love  her  and  her  only,  if 
they  were  never  to  meet  and  mingle  soul  with  soul?  He 
was  severe  in  his  denouncement  of  fortune  as  he  sat  there 
alone  and  depressed,  while  all  the  world  outside  was  mingling 
together  and  making  merry. 

"  It  was  not  my  seeking,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  I  had  no 
more  hand  in  this  matter  than  I  had  in  my  own  creation.  I 
loved  this  woman  from  the  first — loved  her  long  before  I  saw 
her,  and  I  trembled  the  very  moment  I  first  saw  her  face. 
With  me,  on  my  side  at  least,  it  was  like  meeting  with  one 


256  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

again  with  whom  I  had  spent  half  my  life,  and  known  all  my 
happiness. 

Half  the  day  had  gone  by  when  this  man  rose  up,  half 
desperate,  and  went  out  hurriedly,  trying  very  hard  to  make 
up  his  mind  as  he  hastened  down  the  stone  steps,  near  the 
little  blue  Madonna  with  the  sacred  lamp  at  her  feet,  to  vow 
to  never  lift  his  face  to  her  whom  he  had  loved  and  followed 
so  long  and  so  faithfully. 

"Why  can  I  not  be  as  other  men  are  ?  Why  should  I  not 
mix  with  men  and  laugh,  and  laugh  loud  and  long,  and  be 
careless  and  glad,  and  let  the  days  go  over  my  head  lightly, 
instead  of  tearing  through  my  heart,  uprooting  my  hair, 
ploughing  furrows  in  my  face,  and  sowing  trouble  and  care 
across  my  brows.  I  will  arise,  I  will  shake  off  this  load  that 
weighs  me  down  and  makes  me  old  before  my  middle  age.  I 
will  put  off  this  care  as  one  puts  off  a  coat."  He  almost  cast 
off  his  cloak  as  he  said  this  aloud  to  himself  while  elbowing 
his  way  through  the  crowd  toward  the  Corso. 

He  heard  people  laugh  and  he  laughed  also.  He  heard 
them  shout  and  he  also  shouted.  He  shouted  till  there  were 
tears  on  his  face. 

He  kept  on  down  the  Corso,  when  suddenly,  as  the  clock 
struck  two,  the  great  body  of  those  about  him  melted  away 
into  side  streets,  or  retired  into  the  palaces  by  the  way,  and 
another  class  of  people  took  their  places.  These  new  comers 
were  all  strangely  dressed,  and  had  their  faces  protected  with 
iron  or  wire  masks.  They  bore  little  leather  bags  by  their 
sides.  These  bags  were  filled  with  confetti,  bouquets,  little 
puff  and  powder  bags,  and  other  things  to  be  thrown  at  the 
enemy  in  the  coming  battle. 

Suddenly  the  air  was  filled  with  confetti.  It  came  down 
from  all  sides,  from  every  window,  from  below,  from  above, 
from  the  side  streets,  from  everywhere. 

It  was  worse  than  a  snow-storm  in  the  Alps.  You  could 
not  see  the  distance  of  a  block..  Every  one  was  white  as  a 


Confetti  Day  on  the  Cor  so.  257 

meal  bag  in  an  instant.  The  artist  drew  his  cloak  about  him 
and  drew  his  hat  down,  and  thus  protected  kept  on  down  the 
middle  of  the  Corso,  mixing  with  the  people,  laughing,  shout 
ing  with  the  men,  elbowing  with  the  women,  determined  to 
be  glad,  and  at  least  appear  light-hearted,  even  though  his 
heart  was  cold  and  heavy  as  a  tombstone. 

How  the  battle  did  rage,  and  how  the  dirt  flew  !  Now  and 
then  some  lady  would  faint  and  have  to  be  carried  out  of  the 
dense  white  crowd,  and  now  and  then  some  gentleman  would 
be  knocked  down  by  accident  and  have  to  leave  the  field  ;  and 
all  along,  right  and  left,  you  would  see  people  bent  down, 
rubbing  their  eyes,  and  trying  to  rid  them  of  the  vile  confetti 
and  the  lime  that  was  thrown  as  a  sort  of  powder  with  these 
little  bullets  so  like  buck-shot. 

Then  there  came  a  great  procession.  A  platoon  of  horse 
soldiers  with  wooden  cannon,  wooden  horses,  and  wooden 
swords  went  by,  bearing  sheaves  and  boughs  and  shepherds' 
crooks,  and  all  kinds  of  signs  and  implements  that  meant 
peace  and  plenty  over  the  land. 

Then  there  came  a  full-rigged  ship,  drawn  by  ten  real  horses, 
and  filled  with  men  in  sailor  attire, and  officers,and  all  that  goes 
to  make  up  a  ship  of  war.  These  men  had  barrels  and  barrels 
of  confetti  in  their  vessel,  and  they  threw  it  out  by  the  bush 
el,  right  and  left,  and  front  and  back,  they  poured  broadside 
after  broadside.  They  threw  it  at  the  ladies  up  in  the  balco 
nies  as  if  their  lives  depended  on  the  force  and  precision  of 
their  shots.  Never  were  Italians  seen  to  work  so  hard  before. 

And  yet,  fast  as  they  poured  out  the  confetti,  the  great  ship, 
as  it  moved  slowly  up  the  Corso,  was  filled,  and  almost  foun 
dered  by  the  loads  and  loads  that  poured  into  it  from  the 
balconies  right  and  left. 

The  men  were  at  last  exhausted  and  silenced.  Sometimes 
you  could  not  see  the  ship  at  all,  you  could  only  see  the  great 
white  cloud  of  dust  and  dirt  that  enveloped  it. 

The  ship  could  not  run  the  gauntlet.     It  drew  off  ere  it 


258  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

had  made  half  the  length  of  the  Corso.  But  then  it  was 
manned  by  a  fresher  force,  and  soon  was  seen  moving  up  the 
street  again  at  the  head  of  the  procession,  amid  the  renewed 
showers  of  white  shot  and  the  shouts  of  the  people. 

Then  there  followed  men  on  horseback  with  long  lances. 
These  men  were  clad  in  complete  steel  armour  as  well  as  their 
horses,  and  they  had  nothing  to  do  but  bow  to  the  ladies  as 
they  leaned  from  their  balconies,  and  threw  the  harmless  shot 
from  their  white  hands,  and  at  the  same  time  made  more  cer 
tain  havoc  with  their  wonderful  eyes. 

Then  other  things  followed,  with  a  meaning  and  without  a 
meaning,  with  a  moral  and  without  a  moral.  At  last,  a  mob 
of  strange  and  questionable  maskers  brought  up  the  rear  of 
this  singular  display.  At  the  very  rear  was  a  very  tall  man, 
noticeable,  both  from  his  strange  dress  and  his  strange  beha 
viour  and  his  mysterious  prophecies.  He  was  dressed  in  a 
red  nightcap,  a  long  white  gown,  and  red  slippers ;  and  he 
kept  crying  in  a  doleful  voice : 

"  This  is  the  end  of  the  Carnival." 

Then  was  heard  from  a  balcony  above, 

"  The  dirty  beast !     Bet  your  life  !  " 

Bang  !  went  another  bucketful  of  shot  at  the  prophet  from 
the  strong  arm  of  Mollie  Wopsus,  as  she  leaned  from  the  bal 
cony  beside  her  mother  and  her  mischievous  little  brother 
Johnny. 

Murietta  looked  up,  glad  as  if  he  had  heard  the  voice  of  a 
bird  above  him  in  his  native  woods  of  the  Pacific. 

"  By  the  bald-headed  Elijah  !  There  he  is  at  last !  Come 
in  !  come  up  !  That's  right  !  That's  the  way,  right  through 
there  to  the  left,  and  I  will  meet  you  on  the  step." 

"  Come  up,  Murietta !  do  come  up,"  said  the  good  old 
General  Wopsus,  "  it  will  be  such  a  relief  to  have  one  man 
at  least  by  my  side  who  is  not  an  Italian  count,  or  a  Polish 
prince,  or  an  American  colonel." 

The  good  Mrs.  Wopsus  also  leaned  from  the  balcony,  and 


Confetti  Day  on  the  Cor  so.  259 

braving  the  fire  from  the  few  stray  shots  that  were  still  fly 
ing,  added  her  entreaties  to  those  of  the  good  General  and  the 
good-natured  Mollie;  and  the  man  entered  at  once,  and 
handed  his  dusty  cloak  and  hat  to  the  porter,  and  passed  on 
up  the  stairs,  where  Mollie  met  him  with  extended  arms. 

"  And  you  must  never  speak  to  me  any  more.  Never  so 
long  as  I  live,"  laughed  Mollie,  and  she  handed  the  artist 
over  to  her  mother,  and  then  to  her  father,  who  proceeded  to 
hand  him  over  to  counts  and  colonels  and  princes.  And  the 
first  count  there,  at  least  the  first  in  favor  in  the  eyes  of 
Mollie,  was  the  Count  Paolini.  And  the  first  in  favor,  in 
the  eyes  of  the  General,  of  all  the  assembled  princes,  was  the 
Prince  Trawaska. 

Murietta  sat  down  in  silence.  In  truth  there  was  a  very 
awkward  silence  just  then,  and  as  the  artist  sat  there, looking 
down  into  the  white  and  now  half- deserted  street,  he  saw  or 
rather  felt  that  the  handsome  Paolini  was  eying  him  from 
head  to  foot. 

He  had  recognized  him.  He  knew  perfectly  well  that  this 
man,  who  sat  there  so  quiet  and  so  complacently,  and  who 
seemed  the  accepted  lover  of  this  woman  of  prodigious  wealth, 
was  the  very  man  who  dwelt  in  the  mean  and  wretched  rooms 
next  door  to  his  own,  on  the  side  of  the  Tarpeian  Rock.  And 
he,  the  lover,  was  thinking  all  the  time  as  he  noticed  the 
artist  there,  how  he  should  conciliate  him,  win  him  to  his 
side,  and  make  him  his  ally  in  this  campaign  on  which  de 
pended  his  fall  or  his  fortune. 

Then  his  brows  gathered.  Another  and  a  darker  thought 
took  hold  of  him.  He  said  to  himself,  "  Why  conciliate  ? 
Are  there  not  enough  desperadoes  in  Rome  to  match  this  one 
man,  who  dares  the  darkest  streets  at  the  most  dangerous 
hours  of  the  night  ?  Is  the  Tiber  not  deep  and  dark  enough 
to  hide  him  and  my  secret  with  him  ?  "  Then  he  thought  of 
the  last  night,  as  he  stood  there  with  his  arm  about  the  dark 
Italian  Countess,  looking  out  of  the  north  window  towards 


260  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

St.  Peter's,  and  began  to  wonder  if  this  artist  would  expose 
him  there  and  then.  He  looked  into  the  face  of  Marietta 
with  all  his  might.  He  could  see  no  further  into  his  soul 
than  one  can  see  into  the  dark  and  turbid  Tiber. 

But  Murietta's  mind  was  elsewhere.  After  the  excitement 
came  a  reaction,  and  his  active  and  vivid  imagination  had 
tm-ned  at  once  to  another  scene,  so  soon  as  the  tumult  of  the 
day  was  over.  It  had  flown  like  a  bird  that  had  been  im 
prisoned  all  day,  and  was  wild  to  escape  to  its  old  haunts  on 
the  wooded  hill-side.  Yesterday  he  had  sat  by  the  beautiful 
Countess  in  pink  and  rose.  He  had  shared  her  hospitalit^, 
had  delighted  in  her  company,  entered  her  house,  and  eaten 
her  bread.  Then  he  had  left  her,  a  sort  of  prisoner  as  it  were, 
in  the  hands  of  ruffians  or  brigands.  He  had  at  last  left  her 
lying  prostrate  with  illness,  alone  with  a  stranger,  with  the 
house  full  of  drunken  men,  and  had  not  called  or  sent  one 
word,  or  made  a  single  inquiry  after  the  health  of  his  beauti 
ful  hostess. 

Marietta  was  not  thinking  of  Count  Paolini  or  his  friends  in 
the  least.  He  had  forgotten  almost  where  he  was,  and  was 
commiserating  with  the  beautiful  Countess,  and  feeling  very 
much  ashamed  of  himself  and  his  selfish  pleasure  this  day, 
when  his  companion  of  the  day  before  was  so  miserable. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 


ON  THE  CAPITOLIXE  HILL. 


HE  Carnival  had  exhausted  it 
self  in  the  two  first  days,  and, 
at  least  so  thought  Marietta, 
was  becoming  a  bore.  And 
evidently  many  others  thought 
so  too ;  for,  as  he,  the  next 
day,  set  his  face  in  another 
direction  than  that  of  the 
Corso,  and  climbed  the  broad 
and  magnificent  tufa  steps  that  lead 
from  the  shops  up  to  the  top  of  the 
Capitoline  Hill,  past  the  colossal  fig 
ures  of  Castor  and  Pollux,  and  right 
in  the  face  of  the  grand  old  brass 
emperor  on  his  brass  horse,  he  found 
a  whole  tide  of  people  pouring  up 
and  down,  and  quite  a  little  army  hanging  about  the  broad 
steps  and  idling  about  the  little  wolf  in  its  wire  cage. 

Mothers  would  lead  their  little  children  up  carefully  to  the 
balustrades  that  rise  before  the  cage,  and  point  them  out  the 
wolf,  and  tell  them  the  wonderful  story  of  Romulus  and 
Remus.  And  they  would  tell  it,  too,  as  if  it  had  happened  but 
yesterday.  Perhaps  these  Roman  mothers  thought  this  to  be 


262  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

the  very  wolf  that  had  been  so  kind  to  the  twins,  for  these 
peasants  seem  to  have  no  idea  of  dates  whatever,  although 
they  can  tell  you  nearly  all  the  great  events  in  the  history 
of  Rome. 

And  what  a  queer-looking,  foxy  little  wolf  it  is  !  It  is  pre 
cisely  like  a  Californian  coyote  in  action  and  appearance. 
Let  us  hope  that  it  is  not  so  in  spirit. 

Little  boys  hold  on  to  each  other  in  a  sort  of  shiver,  as 
they  come  to  look  at  the  harmless  little  creature,  and  evi 
dently  contemplate  it  with  a  feeling  of  terror.  But  it  is  as 
harmless  as  a  kitten.  So  is  its  counterpart  in  the  garden 
on  the  Palatine  Hill.  They  are  a  sort  of  cross  between  a  very 
lazy  yellow  dog  of  a  nameless  species,  and  a  brown,  chicken- 
stealing  fox.  This  one  on  the  Capitoline  got  out  of  his  wire 
cage  not  long  ago,  and  ran  off  down  through  the  town.  All 
Rome  was  in  terror.  The  people  thought  they  were  to  be  de 
voured  by  this  wolf,  and  retired  to  their  palaces  and  shut  the 
portals.  An  English  gentleman,  however,  found  the  little 
fellow  soon  after  in  a  side  street,  took  him  by  the  back  of  the 
neck,  tucked  him  up  under  his  coat,  and  taking  him  back  to 
the  hill,  restored  him  to  his  keeper.  Then  Rome  was  glad 
once  more. 

Passing  the  little  wolf,  and  the  army  of  little  urchins  that 
hung  about  the  "  Nurse  of  Rome,"  he  turned  to  the  left  when 
once  on  top  of  the  hill,  and  entered  the  museum. 

Mounting  the  first  stairs,  he  stood  in  the  little  room  where 
the  dying  gladiator  sinks  upon  his  shield  and  dies. 

He  was  now  before  the  one  work  in  marble  worth  making 
the  circuit  of  the  world  to  see. 

You  cannot  get  away  from  this  pitiful  face  and  figure  if 
you  would.  The  man  is  down,  dying.  He  is  half  resting  on 
his  right  hand,  but  you  seem  to  see  him  sinking.  You  are 
certain  he  will  fall  every  moment.  His  brow  seems  to  per 
spire.  You  hold  your  breath  as  you  look  at  him,  and  sym 
pathize  with  him,  and  suffer  with  him.  You  are  actually 


On  the   Capitoline  Hill.  263 

suffering  with  this  piece  of  ancienb  marble.  "What  a  despair 
in  his  held  down  face!  What  a  sick  look  in  his  swooning 
eyes  ! 

It  seems  to  me  as  if  a  man  could  stand  before  this  immor 
tal  creation,  and  repeat  literally  the  lines  of  Lord  Byron  on 
the  Dying  Gladiator,  although  he  had  never  heard  or  read 
the  lines  in  his  life. 

Once  a  poet  stood  before  this  figure  and  looked  at  it  long 
and  earnestly.  At  last  he  said  with  a  sigh,  "  Byron  has  done 
me  more  wrong  than  all  the  world  together ;  he  has  ruined 
my  future,  for  if  he  had  not  written  those  poems  of  his,  I 
should  have  written  them  ;  and  it  seems  to  me  I  should  have 
written  them  just  as  he  wrote  them." 

'  Butcher'd  to  make  a  Roman  holiday.' 

Bet  your  life !  that's  why  the  Romans  have  got  so  many  holi 
days.  It's  because  they  butchered  so  many  of  them  gladia 
tors.  How  d'ye  do,  Murietta  ?  "  And  the  merry-hearted 
Mollie  shot  out  her  hand  and  shook  the  artist  with  all  the 
heartiness  of  an  old  veteran  who  had  just  met  a  comrade  of 
many  campaigns. 

"  Come  along,  governor,  here's  your  hobby  !  Now  then,  if 
you  want  an  antiquity,  buy  that !  O,  how  sick  he  does  look. 
It  makes  me  hungry  !  "  So  saying,  she  took  the  artist  by 
the  arm,  and  leaving  her  parents  and  the  party  of  Americans 
to  walk  around  and  wonder  at  the  "  Sick  "  gladiator,  she  led 
him  on  into  the  next  room. 

"  And  O,  thou  thunder-stricken  nurse  of  Borne  !  " 

cried  Mollie,  as  she  caught  sight  of  the  big  brass  wolf  stand 
ing  up  astride  of  the  two  twins,  and  pointing  out  her  sharp 
nose,  and  looking  as  stiff  and  stupid  as  a  wooden  hobby 
horse. 

"  O,  thou  thunder-stricken  nurse  of  Rome !  " 

Why  don't  you  quote  Byron,  Mr.  Murietta  ?     Why  don't  you 


264  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

spout  Byron  ?  Don't  you  know  that  everybody  spouts  Byron 
that  comes  to  Italy  ?  That's  why  they  put  so  much  of  Byron 
in  the  guide-book.  "Want  to  have  it  ready,  you  see.  Why, 
when  I  go  into  the  Coliseum  I  fire  Byron  at  the  Coliseum. 
When  I  go  into  any  place  or  any  city,  and  I  want  to  stand 
there  and  say  something  nice  and  sentimental,  why  I  just  turn 
to  my  red-book,  and  there  it  is  all  ready,  all  cooked  up. 
Byron,  Byron,  Byron  !  " 

The  pretty  Mollie  clasped  her  ruddy  hands,  put  her  parasol 
up  under  her  wing  of  an  elbow,  and  pouting  out  her  lips, 
began  in  a  loud  and  solemn  voice  : 

"  And  O,  thou  thunder-stricken  nurse  of " 

Oh,  just  see  !  just  look  there  !  how  one  of  her  hind  legs  has 
been  split  and  torn  !  Bet  that's  where  the  dogs  caught  her, 
eh? 

"  And  0,  thou  thunder-stricken " 

Poor  little  twins  !  How  hungry  they  do  look  !  Come  along, 
come  along,  let's  see  this  old  Socrates.  Why  he  looks  like 
an  Irish  plug-ugly,  with  his  nose  all  knocked  up.  Bet  your 
life !  Square  off,  old  Sock  !  "  And  then  she  threw  her 
parasol  up  under  her  arm,  doubled  up  her  fist,  and  stood  in  a 
very  warlike  attitude  before  the  old  philosopher,  who  had 
perhaps  seen  quite  enough  of  that  in  his  lifetime  to  last  him 
to  the  end. 

At  length  Mollie  fell  in  with  one  of  the  handsome  and  polite 
sergeants  in  attendance,  and  went  on  to  another  room  as  the 
general  came   up,  and    Murietta   still   lingered   about   "  the 
thunder-stricken  nurse  of  Rome,"  for  to  him  it  was  full  of 
history  and  meaning. 

Then  Mrs.  Wopsus,  having  done  with  the  Dying  Gladiator, 
came  in  with  her  face  wet  with  tears,  and  lifting  up  her  eyes 
saw  the  storied  wolf  and  her  twins.  She  then  held  her  head, 


On  the  Capitoline  Hill.  265 

threw  up  her  hands,  clasped  them  together,  and,  perfectly 
certain  that  she  was  doing  something  very  original,  said, 

"  And  0,  tlwu  thunder-stricken  nurse  of  Rome  !  " 

Then  there  came  in  an  old  party  with  green  glasses  and  a 
very  lai-ge  umbrella,  and  looking  up  he  started  back,  and  with 
extended  arms  and  umbrella  said,  in  a  deep  and  a  dreadful 
voice,  that  sounded  as  if  it  might  come  up  from  out  of  a 
pulpit, — 

"  And  0,  thou  thunder-stricken  nurse  of  Rome." 

Then  feeling  that  he  had  done  a  good  thing  and  done  it  well, 
the  green  glasses  and  the  great  umbrella  passed  on  in  the 
wake  of  Mrs.  Wopsus,  as  if  they  had  their  own  opinion  of 
men  who  could  not,  on  great  occasions  like  this,  quote  the 
immortal  poet. 

A  young  man  just  from  school  came  next,  and  walking  up 
to  the  rigid  and  misshapen  wolf,  he  deliberately  opened  his 
red  book,  and,  striking  an  oratorical  attitude,  read  as  follows 
in  a  loud,  clear  voice  : — 

"And  O,  thou  thunder  -stricken  nurse  of  Rome  !  " 

Then  this  young  man  passed  on,  feeling  very  sure  that  this 
thing  had  never  been  done  before. 

A  tall  and  bony  spinister  entered  now,  and,  lifting  her  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles,  she  walked  straight  up  before  the  nose  of 
the  brass  wolf,  put  her  nose  against  it,  and  then  stepping  back, 
made  a  grimace  at  it  and  said,  "  Booh  !  "  Then  she  shook 
her  head  and  said,  "  Don't  you  think  I'm  afraid  of  you,  if  you 
did  have  twins."  Then  stepping  still  further  back,  she 
opened  a  book,  turned  through  the  leaves,  and  at  last  seemed 
to  find  what  she  sought,  for  she  adj  usted  her  spectacles,  and 
then  she  shrieked  out  in  a  voice  that  was  sharp  enough  almost 
to  split  even  the  brass  ears  of  the  brass  wolf: 

"And  O,  thou  thunder-stricken  nurse  of  Rome." 


266  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

Then  the  Special  Correspondent  took  out  a  carpenter's  rule, 
and  measuring  the  extent  of  the  rupture  on  the  hind  leg,  she 
made  a  note  of  it  in  her  book  and  passed  on. 

Another  figure,  tall  and  gaunt  and  threadbare,  stood  in  the 
presence  of  the  bronze  wolf.  Then  a  long  lean  umbrella 
shot  down  upon  the  floor,  and  the  old  missionary  of  Naples, 
shaking  his  death's  head  on  the  tombstone  till  the  weeping 
willows  waved  about  it  mournfully,  said  in  a  voice  that 
seemed  to  come  from  the  grave  : 

"  And  0,  thou  thunder-stricken  nurse  of  Rome." 

Then,  taking  up  his  umbrella,  and  assuming  the  most  meek 
and  humble  carriage  and  expression  of  countenance,  he  went 
up  and  reached  out  his  hand  and  tried  to  tear  off  one  of  the 
twins  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  But  finding  it  was  too  se 
curely  fastened,  and  also  finding  that  a  sergeant  who  seemed 
to  be  asleep  was  not  asleep,  he  passed  on,  and  to  the  great 
relief  of  Marietta,  did  not  see  him. 

The  American  party,  having  completed  the  round  of  the 
museum,  returned  ;  and  Mollie,  bouncing  into  the  room  as  she 
had  first  entered  it  that  morning,  found  Murietta  still  divid 
ing  his  attention  between  the  Gladiator  and  the  Wolf. 

"  Come.  Bet  your  life  you've  got  to  come.  You  can't 
shake  me ;  I  come  from  California,  I  do,  and  I  know  my  way 
about.  Now  you  come  along,  that's  a  good  old  boy." 

Murietta,  glad  enough  to  go,  go  anywhere  with  this  lively, 
light-hearted,  and  honest  creature,  this  bit  of  California  sun 
shine,  anywhere  to  get  away  from  himself,  away  from  his 
thoughts,  offered  her  his  arm  good-naturedly,  and  asked : 

';  But  where  do  you  go,  Miss  Mollie  ?  " 

"  O,  we're  all  going  to  jail,  you  know  !  Won't  that  be 
jolly  ?  Bet  your  life  I'll  have  a  flirtation  with  the  jailoi-, 
make  him  give  me  up  his  keys,  and  all  that,  you  know." 

"But  what  jail  are  you  going  to  this  pleasant  weather?" 
asked  the  artist,  as  they  all  passed  out  together. 


On  the   Capitoline  HilL  267 

"  Oh,  the  jail,  you  know,  where  they  kept  St.  Paul,  and 
St.  Peter,  and  where  poor  old  Jugurtha  was  starved,  and 
where  the  jailor  was  baptized,  and  where  the  spring  of  cool 
water  came  up  to  baptize  him  in,  and  all  that,  you  know. 
Didn't  you  never  hear  of  it  all  ?  Well,  I  read  it  this  morn 
ing  in  the  guide-book.  It's  just  here,  you  know.  There  it 
is  !  Here's  the  door.  They've  turned  it  into  a  church,  you 
see." 

Down,  down,  down,  and  around,  the  old  priest  led,  and  as 
he  passed  down  a  step  so  narrow  that  Mollie  and  her  mother 
could  hardly  pass  their  crinolines  through,  he  crossed  him 
self  devoutly,  and  told  his  beads,  and  mumbled  his  prayers. 

"  Stay !  Look  here,  Mr.  Monk,  now  what  does  that 
mean  ?  " 

Mollie  stopped  the  whole  party  in  its  dark  descent  of  the 
narrow  stairs,  and  stopped  the  good  priest  in  his  prayers,  and 
would  not  pass  on  till  he  turned  about  and  explained  that 
the  hole  in  the  wall  made  to  the  right  was  the  place  where 
the  head  of  St.  Peter  struck  one  day  when  the  jailor  pushed 
him  down  the  steps  toward  his  dungeon,  and  that  it  was  one 
of  the  most  sacred  things  in  Rome. 

Soon  they  reached  the  round  dark  cell.  There,  above 
them,  just  high  enough  to  permit  them  to  stand  and  swing  a 
lamp ;  and  by  the  dim  light,  you  could  see  the  very  hole 
through  which  the  great  African  king  was  dropped.  There 
lay  the  same  great  stone  that  was  closed  above  his  living 
grave.  You  could  almost  hear  it  fall :  you  could  almost 
hear  the  stony  walls  echo  : — 

"  Ye  gods,  how  cold  are  the  hot  baths  of  Rome." 

"  And  this  is  the  stone  that  St.  Peter  sat  on,"  began  the 
priest,  in  a  mournful  voice. 

"  Oh,  is  it  ?  "  said  Mollie,  and  she  turned  about  and  sat 
flat  down  on  the  cold,  damp  rock  in  a  manner  so  refreshing, 
that  it  fairly  took  the  good  father's  breath. 


268  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  And  this,"  the  priest  began  again,  "  is  the  holy  fountain 
of  water  that  burst  forth  to  baptize  the  converted  jailor." 

"  Mollie,  I  thought  you  were  going  to  flirt  with  the 
jailor." 

"  Flirt  with  your  grandmother  !  Do  you  suppose  I  want 
to  flirt  with  a  man  in  a  brown  petticoat  ?  " 

"  Ah  well,  Mollie,  never  mind  !  We  will  send  for  the 
Count  Paolini,  and  fancy  that  he  is  jailor." 

"  Oh  I'm  so  hungry  !  Look  here,  Mr.  Monk,  hand  me 
that  dipper. "  The  California  girl  had  been  fumbling  all  the 
time  in  her  pocket,  and  at  last  had  brought  out  a  roll  of  sand 
wiches  and  a  wing  of  chicken. 

The  astonished  priest  passed  the  dipper  of  water,  and  as  he 
proceeded  to  tell  all  the  wonderful  things  that  had  taken 
place  in  that  terrible  prison,  the  little  lady  sat  on  the  sacred 
stone,  drank  from  the  holy  fountain,  and  ate  her  lunch  of 
sandwiches  and  chicken  wing  with  perfect  satisfaction,  while 
her  mother  stood  by  and  looked  tearfully  on,  and  tried  to  fol 
low  the  good  priest  in  his  mournful  catalogue  of  crimes. 

"  No  more,  Mr.  Monk,  thank  you.  Now  I  am  ready  to 
go; "  and  the  arbitrary  little  tyrant  led  off  up  the  narrow 
steps,  munching  a  chicken  bone  as  she  went. 

She  stopped  at  the  holy  hole  in  the  wall,  and  laid  her  head 
in  it,  and  then  began  to  scream  and  shout  as  if  caught  in  a 
trap. 

"  Oh,  my  child,  my  child  !  what  in  the  world  has  hap 
pened  ?" 

"  Bet  your  life  I  don't  put  my  head  in  there  again,  "  said 
Mollie,  half  laughing,  half  crying,  as  she  mounted  the  step, 
and  stood  out  on  the  upper  floor. 

"  But,  my  child,  my  dear  Mollie,  what  in  the  world  has 
happened  ?  " 

"Nothing.  It's  all  hunky.  I  only  put  my  head  in  there 
while  I  was  chewing  my  chicken,  and  I  caught  my  chin. 
That's  all.  See  there.  That's  blood.  Scratched  my  chin  on, 


On  the  Capita  line  Hill.  269 

old  St.   Peter's   rock.     Bet  your  life  lie's  got  a  harder  head 
than  I  have !" 

Mollie  stood  rubbing  her  chin ;  Mrs.  Wopsus  stood  rolling 
her  eyes,  and  the  general  was  fumbling  in  his  vest  pocket  for 
the  usual  five-franc  piece  for  seeing  this  gloomy  dungeon ; 
while  Murietta  was  thinking  of  the  mighty  men  who  had 
gone  down  in  the  great  whirlpool  of  Rome,  that  for  cen 
turies  drew  all  things  to  its  centre,  and  swallowed  them  up  as 
if  it  had  been  a  maelstrom. 

"  And  they  have  turned  this  into  a  church  too,"  said  the 
quiet  old  General,  looking  up  as  they  passed  out  and  bent 
their  steps  toward  the  Temple  of  Vesta.  Passing  over  the 
sort  of  bridge  that  crosses  the  excavations  of  the  Forum,  thafc 
in  fact  runs  right  over  and  above  the  remnants  of  the  ancient 
Forum,  they  soon  stood  before  a  little  round  structure  of 
marble,  topped  with  a  rotund  roof  of  tiles,  and  not  a  great 
deal  larger  than  a  wigwam  of  buffalo  skins  in  the  West. 

The  party  entered.  There  was  one  priest  there  to  open  the 
door,  and  another  to  stand  before  the  altar  and  beg  money. 
They  saw  some  old  relics,  some  wretched  pictures,  and  that 
was  all. 

''  And  when  was  this  built  ?  "  asked  the  General.  The 
priests  could  not  tell.  They  could  not  tell  when  it  was  built, 
who  built  it,  or  what  it  was  built  for.  They  only  knew  that 
it  was  called  the  Temple  of  Vesta,  that  it  was  a  church  now, 
and  that  sometimes  it  stood  up  to  its  waist  in  the  waters  of 
the  Tiber,  on  whose  very  brink  it  was  built. 

The  General  again  fumbled  in  his  vest  pocket  for  the  ex 
pected  five  francs,  and  Mollie  rubbed  her  chin  at  the  blue 
Madonna  with  the  lamp  at  her  feet,  and  Murietta  mused  and 
wondered  what  was  the  difference  between  this  lamp,  and  the 
lamp  of  sacred  fire  of  the  vestal  virgins  that  burned  in  these 
same  walls,  attended  by  never-sleeping  virgins  twenty  centu. 
ries  before. 

"  Well,"  said  General  Wopsus,  feeling  that  he  was  buying 


270  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

a  great  deal  of  religion,  as  he  tapped  his  vest  pocket,  "  well, 
they  have  turned  this  into  a  Catholic  church,  too." 

It  is  but  a  few  steps  from  the  Temple  of  Vesta  to  the  Tem 
ple  of  Fortune,  just  across  the  narrow,  dirty  street  from  the 
house  of  Hienzi  the  Tribune. 

They  found  that  this  ancient  and  venerable  structure  was 
of  more  imposing  proportions  by  a  great  deal  than  the  Tem 
ple  of  Vesta ;  but,  to  the  infinite  disgust  of  the  general,  who 
was  anything  but  a  Catholic,  they  found  a  great  leathern 
apron  swinging  there,  and  a  priest  to  pull  it  back  and  impor 
tune  you  for  alms. 

The  same  mournful  pictures,  the  same  blue  Madonna,  with 
the  dim  lamp  at  her  feet,  and  that  was  all  they  found  in  the 
storm-stained  Temple  of  Fortune. 

Again  the  General  fumbled  in  his  pocket.  Murietta  mused 
and'wondered  if  the  goddess  would  be  kinder  to  him  now  that 
he  had  made  a  pilgrimage  to  her  shrine.  And  Mollie  still 
rubbed  her  chin,  and  Mrs.  Wopsus  rubbed  her  nose,  and 
said  :  " 

"  Oh  my  !  what  a  smell  !  " 

"  And  what  next  ?  "  asked  the  general,  with  a  smiling  air 
and  gesture,  of  the  group  as  they  stood  \inder  the  marble  eaves 
of  the  house  of  the  Last  of  the  Tribunes. 

"  Let  us  see  the  Cloaca  Maxima,"  said  Murietta.  "  It  is 
just  here,  close  by  the  Temple  of  Janus." 

"  The  Cloaca  Whatima  ?  "  asked  the  mischievous  Mollie. 

"  Why  the  great  Cloaca,"  answered  Murietta.  "It  is  the 
great  drain  cut  by  the  Tarquins,  and  it  has  been  the  sewer  of 
Home  for  more  than  twenty  centuries." 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  General,  raising  his  voice.  "  We  will 
not  go  there  to  see  a  sewer  so  old  as  that,  for  if  we  did  we 
should  find  it  turned  into  a  Catholic  church,  also." 

Murietta  laughed.  "  Then  I  propose  the  Theatre  of  Mar- 
cellus,"  said  he. 

"  But  is  it  not  shut  in  Carnival  ?  "  asked  the  General. 


On  the   Capitoline  Hill.  271 

"  Ah  yes,"  answered  Murietta.  "  This  theatre  is  shut  this 
Carnival  and  every  other  Carnival.  And  in  fact  it  has  been 
shut  ever  since  about  the  time  of  the  death  of  Julius  Caesar." 

"Bet  your  life  I  want  to  go  there.  I've  heard  all  about 
this  place.  Robbers  and  brigands  there,  and  all  that. 
Thieves,  banditti  !  Jolly,  won't  it  be  !  Come  along  !  Buckle 
on  your  swords  !  " 

And  off  led  the  lively  Mollie  up  and  amid  the  way  of  the 
Montenare  between  the  Tiber  and  the  Capitoline  Hill. 

"  How  tired  and  hungry  it  looks  !  "  Mollie  stood  before  the 
mighty  structure  with  her  back  to  the  Tarpeian  Rock ;  and  in 
that  one  sentence  photographed  the  grand  old  battle-torn  edi 
fice  better  than  many  a  polished  page  could  do  it. 

By  degrees  they  drew  up  to  the  dingy  shops  and  dens  in 
the  once  lofty  and  beautifully  chiselled  arches  of  the  theatre. 

Soon  they  found  their  way  into  the  shop  of  the  old  maker 
and  vendor  of  antiquities,  and  the  General  was  at  once  at 
home  and  very  delighted.  Ah  yes  !  the  General  knew  an  old 
coin  at  the  first  glance.  He  had  at  least  a  thousand  coins,  all 
procured  at  an  immense  cost  of  time  and  money.  He  felt  of 
those  before  him,  and  pronounced  them  about  the  best  he 
had  ever  seen.  He  talked  in  a  very  patronizing  way  to  the 
cunning  old  vendor,  and  told  him  that  they  had  got  to  mak 
ing  spurious  old  coins  in  England  as  well  as  in  America,  and 
shipping  them  to  Rome. 

The  cunning  old  Prince — for  this  was  the  father  of  the  four 
countesses — seemed  greatly  surprised,  as  no  doubt  he  was  at 
some  part  of  this  information,  and  crossed  himself  devoutly, 
and  then  proceeded  to  express  his  contempt  and  abhorrence 
of  such  deception  in  the  strongest  terms. 

"  Be  careful,"  said  the  simple-hearted  Californian  General, 
"be  careful,  my  old  friend,  or  they  will  impose  upon  you! 
You  see  they  may  come  down  here  to  you  in  your  isolated 
retreat,  and  sell  you  these  coins  at  a  seeming  sacrifice,  and 
ruin  you;  ruin  you,  both  in  fortune  and  your  good  name." 


272  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

The  old  prince  was  very  much  afraid  they  would  indeed, 
and  his  hands  trembled  and  shook  as  he  handled  his  coins, 
and  crocodiles,  and  brass  cats  and  curious  copper  sphinxes 
that  seemed  older  even  than  the  baby  toys  of  Father  Time. 

Mollie  was  amused  with  all  the  many  curiosities  the  vener 
able  dealer  set  before  them  with  a  trembling  hand  on  the 
rickety  bench  by  the  door,  and  so  was  her  mother.  They 
liked  these  things  because  the  good-natured  General  liked 
them.  They  were  his  great  delight,  and  the  party  lingered 
here  even  till  the  setting  of  the  sun. 

Many  and  many  a  coin,  and  many  a  curious  sphinx  and 
cat  and  serpent  were  selected  and  set  aside,  and  the  old  dealer 
kept  blessing  the  patron  saint  and  the  good  Madonna  who 
had  led  these  people  to  his  door. 

"  You  should  be  on  the  Corso  with  these  things,  you 
should  be  on  the  Corso,  by  all  means,  or  at  least  in  the  Via 
Condotti,"  said  the  General  to  the  old  palsied  Prince. 

"  Ah,  that  has  been  the  ambition  of  my  life.  But  my 
children  are  so  many,  and  my  customers  so  few,  that  I  have 
never  dared  leave  the  shelter  of  this  gloomy  den  of  ours,  and 
here  I  must  live  and  die,"  sighed  the  old  man,  "  unless  the 
good  Madonna  sends  me  some  day  another  customer  as  kind 
and  generous  as  yourself." 

"  Another  customer !  Well,  I  will  send  you  another 
customer,  I  will  send  you  two,  three,  four;  we  will  buy,  be 
fore  we  leaA'e  Rome,  the  whole  of  your  stock." 

"  Then  at  last  my  fortune  will  be  made,  my  daughters  will 
be  married,  and  I  shall  have  a  shop  on  the  Corso,"  said  the 
old  man,  clasping  his  hands  before  the  good  General,  shedding 
tears  of  genuine  joy. 

It  was  getting  chilly  in  that  damp  and  cheerless  part  of 
Rome,  and  the  party  prepared  to  move  on. 

The  General  drew  out  a  full  wallet  of  Italian  notes,  and 
counted  down  the  old  Prince,  the  maker  and  vendor  of  an 
tiquities,  his  full  price  and  demand  without  a  murmur.  It 


On  the  Capita  line  Hill.  273 

was  like  a  fairy  tale.  He  had  never  seen,  or  at  least  never 
touched,  so  much  money  in  all  his  life.  It  was  nearly  a 
thousand  francs,  and  his  fortune  was  indeed  made. 

The  store  of  antiquities  was  carefully  packed  in  a  little 
box,  and  one  from  the  dozens  of  idle  boys  about  the  door 
was  selected  to  bear  them  on  his  back  for  the  General  to  the 
door  of  his  hotel. 

Suddenly  the  old  Prince  threw  up  his  hand  to  the  side  of 
his  head,  as  if  he  had  just  remembered  a  very  important  and 
wonderful  secret.  He  touched  the  General  with  his  finger. 

"  Signer." 

The  General  bent  his  head  to  listen. 

"  I  have  the  serpent !  " 

The  General  waited  for  an  explanation. 

"  I  have  a  bronze  of  the  original  serpent  seen  by  Eve  in 
the  Garden  of  Eden." 

The  General  was  both  astonished  and  delighted. 

"  Will  you  only  look  at  it — look  at  it  now  ?  I  will  tell 
you  the  history  of  it  some  other  time.  I  will  only  tell  you 
now  that  this  little  coiled-up  image,  which  I  will  find  in  a 
moment,"  and  he  kept  feeling  about  in  the  cracks  of  the 
wall  as  if  he  was  looking  for,  and  was  about  to  find,  a  real 
live  serpent,  "  I  will  only  tell  you  now,  I  say,  that  this 
serpent  was  modelled  by  one  of  the  great  great  grandchildren 
of  Eve ;  the  name,  I  regret  to  say,  has  not  reached  us,  but 
there  is  no  doubt  about  this." 

The  General  had  begun  to  smile  with  that  incredulous 
smile  that  is  the  terror  of  dealers  in  antiquities. 

"  I  tell  you  that  it  was  made  by  one  of  the  great  great 
great  grandchildren  of  Eve,  while  she  sat  by  in  the  chimney 
corner  smoking  her  pipe  of  an  evening,  and  reading  her  Bible, 
and  at  intervals  giving  him  directions  as  to  how  the  serpent 
looked  and  behaved  when  she  saw  him  in  the  Garden  of  Eden." 

"  But,"  protested  the  honest  old  General  and  railroad  king, 
"  I — I — I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it." 
12* 


274  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  I  can  prove  it — prove  it ;  will  you,  signer,  only  let  me 
prove  it  ?  " 

The  General  bowed  his  assent,  and  the  old  Prince  laid  hold 
of  his  coat,  and  began  to  talk  as  only  an  Italian  merchant  can 
talk. 

It  was  getting  late,  and  Mollie  was  getting  hungry.  The 
General  really  was  becoming  convinced. 

"  And  what  will  you  take  for  it  ?  " 

*'  Five  hundred — no.  no,  you  have  been  so  generous,  so 

just — one  hundred "  he  stopped,  looked  in  the  General's 

face,  and  thought  he  still  saw  a  smile  there,  and  catching  his 
breath,  went  on,  "  fifty  francs — I  will  take  fifty  francs  for 
the  bronze  serpent  of  the  Garden  of  Eden,"  and  he  laid  it, 
coiled  up,  in  the  General's  hand,  as  he  all  breathless  finished 
his  speech. 

The  General  paid  him  the  money,  and  the  party  moved 
away,  as  the  railroad  king  stood  lifting  the  precious  serpent 
in  his  hand,  and  rubbing  its  scaly  coils  and  very  remarkable 
looking  head. 

Taking  a  step  after  the  party,  white  the  delighted  old 
vendor  of  antiquities  followed  hat  in  hand ;  and,  bowing  all 
the  time,  he  turned  and  said  to  the  old  Prince  and  dealer  as 
he  still  rubbed  his  head : 

"  But  what  makes  it  so  very  smooth  ?  " 

The  remarkable  old  merchant  put  on  his  hat,  struck  an 
attitude,  and  then  throwing  out  and  reaching  his  arms  as  if 
he  was  about  to  hand  something  down  and  down  and  down 
through  the  hands  of  a  thousand  people  standing  in  a  line, 
he  said : 

"Ah,  that  was  done  by  handing  it  down  from  generation 
to  generation." 


CHAPTER  XXXIL 


MURIETTA    SEES    HIS    SHADOW. 


HE  air  was  like  balm  in  Rome 
the  next  morning,  as  the  artist 
rose   and   looked  out    of  his 
little    window    to     the     red 
flower-garden    on    the  top  of 
the  Palatine  Hill.     There  was 
pure  and  perfect    tranquility 
in  the  air  everywhere.     The 
people    had    really    tired    of 
the  three  days'  revel,  and  now  there 
was  a    reaction.     Some  cats  sat  in   a 
row  along  the  top  of  the  glass-topped 
wall  across  the  street,  and  slept  in  the 
sun.     The  dancers  had  tired  out  soon, 
and  now  sat  flat  down  in   the  street 
against  the  wall,  where  the  sunshine 
fell  on  their  dark  and  splendid  hair, 

and  gambled  at  a  very  noisy  game  for  wine  and  chestnuts. 
A  group  of  little  children  were  leading  and  riding  and 
driving  all  at  once  and  all  together,  a  brown  goat  in  a  sort  of 
triumphal  march  by  the  blue  Madonna  with  the  perpetual 
lamp  at  her  feet,  and  laughing  and  shouting  as  if  they  had 
only  begun  to  have  their  own  little  Carnival. 

Under  this  Madonna  stood  a  man  muffled  up  to  the  chin 


276  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

in  a  cloak  that  reached  to  the  ground.  Now  there  was 
nothing  unusual  in  a  man  standing  under  any  one  of  the  ten 
thousand  blue  Madonnas  in  Rome,  and  with  his  cloak  about 
him  too,  and  pulled  tip  even  to  his  chin,  under  ordinary 
circumstances,  and  in  ordinary  weather.  In  fact,  few  men 
b\it  Murietta,  a  man  born  on  the  far  border  and  bred  in 
battle  and  in  scenes  where  a  man  must  watch  his  fellow-man 
and  every  movement  and  unusual  sign,  would  have  remarked 
this  man  standing  under  the  blue  Madonna  at  all.  But 
Murietta  saw  him,  noted  him  at  once. 

Why  was  the  man  standing  there  alone  and  in  the  midst  of 
the  Carnival  ?  And  why  was  he  so  muffled  up,  when  the 
sun  was  shining  so  warm  and  soft  and  sweet  ? 

It  is  true  the  Italians  say  that  the  sun  is  only  fit  for  the 
dogs  and  the  English,  but  they  mean  the  middle  season,  when 
the  bloom  and  vigor  of  spring  is  over.  As  for  the  early 
sun,  no  man  living  is  so  fond  of  it  as  an  Italian.  He  seems 
to  feed  upon  it.  But  this  man  had  his  cloak  drawn  up  to 
his  chin.  That  was  not  the  thing  for  him  to  do  at  this  hour 
of  the  day,  at  all.  In  fact  you  very  rarely  see  an  Italian 
with  his  cloak  drawn  close  about  him  under  any  circum 
stances.  He  as  a  rule  carries  it  swinging  from  one  shoulder, 
and  flowing  and  falling  loosely  behind  him  ;  somewhat  after 
the  fashion  of  the  toga. 

The  artist  closed  the  window,  threw  his  cloak  over  his 
shoulder,  and  adjusting  his  dagger  in  its  place,  called  one  of 
the  countesses,  told  her  he  would  not  return  till  just  before 
midnight,  if  at  all,  that  evening;  and  was  just  about  to 
descend  the  steps  when  he  met  the  old  Prince  and  vendor  of 
antiquities. 

The  old  man  fairly  prostrated  himself  at  the  feet  of  the 
artist,  while  his  little  black-eyed  daughter  stood  by  and 
wept  with  delight  and  gratitude. 

"  You  have  made  my  fortune,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  answered  the  artist,      "  I  really  did  not 


Murietta  sees  his  Shadow.  277 

take  my  friends  to  yonr  shop  ;  it  was  only  your  good  fortune 
that  the  man  bought  your  wares.  Besides  that,  your  coins 
and  antiquities  generally,  are,  as  the  man  said,  really  the  best 
that  are  to  be  had.  They  look  as  old  as  the  pyramids  !  " 

"  Oh  yes.  oh  yes,"  said  the  old  man,  gleefully  rubbing  his 
hands,  "  that  is  my  pride,  that  is  my  pride.  I  make  it  a 
matter  of  conscience  ;  a  matter  of  conscience,  my  friend,  to 
make  my  antiquities  as  old  as  they  possibly  can  be  made,  and 
I  am  sure  your  friend  will  never  regret  his  purchases." 

"  Well,  whether  he  regrets  it  or  not,  I  am  sure  he  is  de 
lighted  with  his  selection,  and  perhaps  it  is  the  best  he  could 
have  done.  The  truth  is,  he  came  to  Europe  to  spend  his 
money,  and  he  is  determined  to  spend  about  so  much  for 
these  old  stained  coins  and  copper  mouldings,  and  he  had  as 
well  spend  it  with  you  as  any  one  ;  ay,  better — for  you,  my 
old  friend,  are  honest,  as  the  world  goes,  and  your  good 
daughters  are  most  deserving.  Therefore  I  am  glad,  you  are 
glad,  and  the  military  old  man  from  the  West  is  equally  glad  ; 
why  then  should  I  have  said  a  word  to  interfere  with  so  plea 
sant  a  little  transaction  ?  Nay,  on  the  contrary,  I  shall 
bring  you,  by  the  aid  of  the  good  old  General,  at  least  a 
dozen  customers,  and  all  as  profitable  to  you  as  he." 

"  My  fortune  is  doubly  made,  and  my  daughters  shall  all  be 
married,  I  shall  dandle  my  grandchildren  on  my  knees  before 
I  die,  and  shall  ever  pray  for  the  Madonna  to  guide  and  bless 
you  !"  The  old  man  was  bowing  and  rubbing  his  hands  and 
shedding  tears  of  gratitude. 

"  Prince !  "  said  Murietta  suddenly,  as  if  just  recollecting 
himself. 

The  old  man  stood  up  erect  at  once  and  with  the  air  of  a 
man  among  his  equals.  He  looked  in  the  face  of  the  artist 
inquiringly,  and  then  said — 

"  Your  pleasure  ?  " 

"  Who  is  the  man  in  the  heavy  blue  cloak  under  the  Ma 
donna  as  you  come  up  the  wide  steps  ?  " 


278  TJic   One  Fair  Woman. 

"  What?  shall  I  tell  you  ?  can  I  trust  you  ?  "  The  old  man 
looked  at  his  daughter,  and  then  looked  nervously  about  him, 
as  if  he  feared  that  the  walls  would  hear  him. 

"  Trust  me,  if  you  like,"  whispered  the  artist.  "  I  have 
something  better  to  do  than  to  tell  the  secrets  of  an  old  man 
whom  I  would  prefer  to  befriend." 

"  Nay,  it  is  not  my  secret,  not  mine.  In  truth  I  know 
not  what  he  wants  here.  He  may  be  waiting  to  see  the 
Prince  Trawaska,  or  my  son  the  Count  Paolini,  or — 

"  Your  son  !  " 

"  My  son,  the  Count  Paolini  of  the  Italian  army." 

The  Countess  blushed,  and  retreated  to  the  door  of  her  own 
apartments. 

"  Nay,  nay,  child,"  began  the  old  man,  "  it  is  no  longer 
necessary  to  keep  it  secret  now.  Our  fortune  has  been  made, 
and  now  you  shall  be  confirmed  in  your  marriage  before  all 
the  world.  You  see,"  said  the  old  man,  turning  to  Murietta 
and  addressing  him,  "  we  are  so  very,  very  poor  in  Italy 
that  often  lovers  have  not  only  to  give  up  lovers,  but  some 
times  a  wife  has  to  give  up  her  husband,  a  husband  his  wife, 
to  better  their  mutual  fortunes." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you," 

"  Well,  to  explain,"  said  the  old  man  glancing  timidly 
towards  his  daughter.  "  Say,  for  example,  a  young  man 
loves  a  young  woman,  both  are  poor.  To  be  once  poor  in  Italy 
is  to  be  poor  for  forty  generations.  "Very  well.  Then,  in 
the  course  of  time,  the  young  man  chances  to  meet  with  a 
wealthy  foreign  lady,  who  consents  to  become  his  wife.  This, 
you  must  understand,  is  an  opportunity  not  to  be  thrown 
away." 

"That  I  can  understand,"  said  the  artist ;  "  that,  I  am 
ashamed  to  say,  might  happen  in  my  own  land  ;  but  how  about 
a  man  giving  up  his  own  wife  ?  " 

.    "  I  will  tell  you ;  listen  to  me,"   began  the  old  man  as  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laid  one  finger  across  the  other, 


Murictta  sees  his  Shadow.  279 

"  Two  young  lovers  are  married.  Good.  They  have  health, 
youth,  desires,  children  ;  all,  in  fact,  but  the  one  all-important 
thing  in  Italy  to  make  them  happy,  that  is — money.  They 
are  very  poor.  Well,  a  cardinal  comes  along,  or  some  foreign 
gentleman,  and  falls  in  love  with  the  wife.  Now,"  said  the 
old  man,  again  shrugging  his  shoulders  and  laying  one  fore 
finger  still  tighter  and  firmer  across  the  other,  and  turning  his 
head  to  one  side  and  half  smiling  out  of  his  half  shut  eyes  at 
the  artist,  "  now  tell  me  what  is  the  wise  thing  to  do  ?" 

"  Why,  blow  the  cardinal  or  the  wealthy  foreigner  to  the 
moon  if  he  interferes  !  "  said  the  artist  emphatically. 

"  No,  no,  no,  no,"  remonstrated  the  old  man,  still  shrug 
ging  his  shoulders  and  locking  his  forefingers  together. 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"  Why,  let  the  cardinal  have  the  wife,  or  let  the  foreigner 
marry  her  if  he  will,  and  pay  her  an  annual  sum  for  the  hus 
band  and  the  children  at  home." 

"  But  this  is  not  done  ?  "  queried  the  artist  doubtfully. 

"  Not  done  !  oh,  isn't  it  !  "  said  the  old  man,  putting  up 
his  open  hands,  as  if  he  would  banish  the  unpleasant  truth 
from  his  mind,  "and  here  we  are  coming  just  back  to  the 
point  where  we  began.  For  instance,"  said  he,  again  locking 
his  two  forefingers  together  and  shrugging  up  his  shoulders, 
"  here  is  my  daughter,  the  Countess,  secretly  married  to  my 
son  the  Count  Paolini.  Good.  But  they  are  very,  very 
poor,  and  it  becomes  necessary  for  him  to  better  his  fortune. 
They  could  barely  subsist  on  their  limited  income.  They 
could  not  bear  to  bring  their  children  into  the  world  to  starve 
before  their  eyes.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  The  count  joined 
the  order  known  as  the  Brothers  of  the  Altar." 

"  The  Brothers  of  the  Altar  ?  " 

{<  Yes,  the  Brothers  of  the  Altar  ;  "  and  here  the  two  fore 
fingers  wrestled  together  more  violently  than  ever  before. 
"  He  joined  the  Brothers  of  the  Altar,  much  to  niy  disgust, 
and  much  to  his  disgrace,  and  began  to  oft'er  his  hand  in  mar- 


280  The  One  Fair    Woman. 

riage  to  wealthy  foreign  ladies  from  the  wild  western  coun 
tries,  and  was  just  about  to  succeed,  when  this  good  fortune 
you  have  brought  upon  my  house  happily  rendered  it  un 
necessary." 

Murietta  had  been  leaning  back  against  the  wall,  stupefied 
and  utterly  overcome  by  this  strange  revelation.  He  never 
before  had  realized  how  much  money  is  worth,  or  rather  how 
much  men  are  willing  to  pay  for  it  who  hang  upon  the  skirts 
of  society. 

At  last  he  said  inquiringly,  as  he  straightened  up,  and 
tried  to  throw  off  this  spell  of  half  stupor  and  amazement, 
"  But  the  man  in  the  long  blue  cloak  under  the  blue  Ma 
donna  ?  " 

"Oh  yes,  oh  yes;  well,  he  is  one  of  the  Brothers  of  the 
Altar.  That  is  all  I  know,  that  is  all  I  know."  The  two 
brown  old  hands  were  thrown  up  again,  as  if  they  would  like 
to  push  this  man  in  the  long  blue  cloak  under  the  blue 
Madonna,  and  the  whole  set  of  the  Brothers  of  the  Altar 
backward  over  the  Tarpeian  Rock. 

"  But  what  does  he  want  here  ?  "  Is  he  not  waiting  to  see 
my  face  and  my  figure,  so  that  he  will  know  me  in  the 
dark?" 

"  Perhaps  he  wants  to  see  the  Prince.  I  do  not  know  what 
he  is  waiting  there  for ;  if  I  did  I  would  tell  you ;  for  you 
have  done  more  for  me  in  one  day,  and  can  do  more  for  a 
poor  Italian  family  than  all  the  miserable  Brothers  of  the 
Altar  in  their  whole  lives.  But  I  should  say  he  wants  to  see 
Prince  Trawaska.  They  are  nearly  always  together.  I  should 
say  he  wants  to  see  the  Prince,  and  is  standing  there  in  the 
sun  waiting  for  him  to  come  along." 

"  Standing  in  the  sun,  with  his  cloak  muffled  about  him  like 
a  midnight  assassin,"  said  the  artist  savagely.  Then,  turning 
to  the  Countess,  he  put  up  his  finger  and  said,  "  He  wants  me. 
He  wants  to  see  my  face  and  not  be  seen.  You  are  an  honest, 
true  little  lady.  Yoxi  will  say  to  the  Count  that  Murietta 


Murietta  sees  his  Shadow.  281 

knows  what  this  man  is  waiting  for,  and  that  if  I  am  in  peril 
when  I  go  abroad  in  the  dark  places  of  Rome  and  come  and 
go  through  these  nai'row  passages  at  night,  he  is  in  peril 
also." 

The  Countess  grew  pale,  and  put  up  her  hands  and  buried 
her  head  in  her  hands,  and  her  splendid  dark  hair  fell  down 
about  her  face  and  shoulders,  and  over  her  loose,  ungathered 
gown,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

The  old  vendor  of  antiquities  shuffled  forward,  and  laid  his 
two  forefingers  together,  as  if  in  preparation  for  another 
wrestling  match  and  long  speech,  but  Murietta  had  heard 
quite  enough,  and  said,  as  he  stepped  back  into  the  half- 
closed  door  of  his  little  apartment — 

"  Do  not  fear,  old  man.  You,  as  I  said,  are  honest,  as  the 
world  goes.  You  are  a  merchant.  You  do  your  best  to  sell 
yoiir  wares  as  all  merchants  do.  Merchants  are  simply  toll- 
takers  and  tax-gathei-ers,  the  world  over.  They  are  the  men 
who  sit  between  the  producer  and  the  consumer,  and  tax,  and 
take  tribute  on  and  of  whatever  passes  from  the  one  to  the 
other.  They  produce  nothing  whatever.  They  all  of  them 
together  never  made  or  brought  into  the  world  even  so  much 
as  one  grain  of  wheat,  not  even  so  much  as  one  of  yonr 
worthless  Vespasian  copper  coins.  Yon  are  as  good  as  the 
best  of  these  merchants.  Yea,  you  are  even  better  than  the 
best  of  them,  for  you  are  not  only  a  merchant,  but  you  are 
also  a  producer." 

Murietta  was  half  smiling  all  this  time,  for  the  old  man 
had  began  to  grow  nervous,  but  now  he  bowed  at  this  com- 
pliment,and  took  on  his  old  complacency. 

"  Therefore,  I  say,"  continued  the  artist,"  fear  nothing  from 
me.  Your  customers  shall  be  wealthy  ones,  if  they  are  not 
numerous,  and  you  shall  sell  all  the  old  copper  crucifixes, 
bronze  serpents,  brass  cats  from  Egypt,  and  battered  sphinxes 
that  you  can  fashion  for  a  year  to  come ;  but  understand, 
the  Count,  who  had  the  weakness,  and  the  Prince  Trawaska, 


282  TJic  One  Fair    Woman. 

who  has  the  wickedness  to  set  this  watch  under  the  bine 
Madonna  upon  my  track,  must  be  more  than  careful,  or  they 
will  pull  this  old  ruin  of  a  house  down  upon  the  heads  of  us 
all." 

He  bowed  to  the  Countess,  who  stood  pushing  back  her 
black  stream  of  hair;  and,  bidding  the  old  man  good-day,  he 
went  in,  shut  the  door,  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 

The  children  were  still  riding  the  goat,  the  cats  still  sat  in 
a  long  great  line  on  the  glass-tipped  wall,  the  game  for  chest 
nuts  and  wine  went  on,  but  the  man  muffled  to  the  chin  in 
the  long  blue  cloak,  xinder  the  blue  Madonna  with  the  per 
petual  lamp  at  her  feet,  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


CAMPO    SANTO. 


OU  had  better  sail  boldly  on 
in  almost  any  direction    than 
drift  without  any  direction  at 
all.     You  had   better  sail  in 
the  maddest  storm  that  ever 
troubled  your  sea  of  life,  than 
lie  on  the  sea  and  drift  with 
any  wind  that  chooses  to  blow. 
Murietta  was  utterly  alone 
in   Rome,  as  far  as  anything 
like    real    friends    were    con 
cerned,  although   he  was    petted    and 
patronized  and  courted   by  the    kind 
artists  here  ;  and  many  an  old  woman, 
and  young  one  too,  for  that,  had  made 
ineffectxial  efforts  to  draw  and  cork 
screw  him  into  their  special  clique  and 

circle,  where  weak  tea  and  strong  scandal  were  dealt  out  with 
prodigal  liberality.  Yet  he  persistently  held  himself  aloof, 
and  with  very  few  exceptions  kept  his  friends  and  his  place 
among  the  poor  and  lowly  people  of  old  Rome. 

He  seemed  to  have  lost  his  spirit  somehow.  He  was  drift 
ing.  He  was  not  waiting  for  anything  to  turn  up.  He  was 
not  wanting  anything  to  turn  up.  It  seemed  to  him  rather 


284  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

that  there  was  now  nothing  else  to  be  done.  He  felt  that  he 
had  come  to  the  end  of  his  weary  road  ;  and  was  perfectly  cer 
tain  in  his  own  mind,  and  perfectly  satisfied,  too,  with  the 
thought,  that  he  should  never  live  to  leave  Rome. 

The  warm,  soft  wind  was  in  again  from  Africa  as  the  artist 
opened  his  window  next  morning.  The  cats  were  on  the  wall 
asleep,  just  as  they  were  before.  Possibly  they  had  not  left 
their  posts  on  the  battlement  all  this  time.  It  was  as  warm 
and  sweet  as  middle  Spring.  Even  the  beggars  affected  the 
shade  of  the  wall,  and  the  people  as  they  passed  by  sang  low 
and  dreamily,  if  they  sang  at  all,  and  all  seemed  languid  and 
half-asleep. 

The  artist  passed  out  of  his  room  and  crossed  the  little 
white  hall  and  looked  away  to  the  hills  beyond  the  Tiber  and 
above  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's.  Monte  Mario,  in  almost  a  sin 
gle  night,  had  mounted  himself  in  green.  He  lifted  his  glass 
and  saw  that  the  side  of  the  mountain  turning  to  the  sun  was 
in  places  red  with  roses  and  in  other  places  white  with  flocks 
of  sheep. 

"  I  can  almost  hear  the  songs  and  the  pipes  of  the  skin-clad 
shepherds,"  said  the  man,  as  he  lowered  his  glass  and'  turned 
back  to  the  lonesome  room.  "  I  can  almost  hear  the  music 
of  spring/  The  country  seems  to  call  to  me  across  the  mossy 
walls  of  Rome,  and  invite  me  to  come  forth  and  be  glad." 

He  was  walking  slowly  across  the  room  asking  himself 
what  he  should  now  do,  when  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  picture 
hiding  away  in  the  shadow  of  the  door.  lie  approached, 
lifted  it  tenderly  to  the  light,  and  sat  down  before  it  in 
silence.  What  could  he  have  been  thinking  of?  At  last  he 
rose  up  with  a  sigh,  set  it  back  in  its  place,  and  then  shook 
his  head  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  violently,  as  if  he  would 
shake  off  and  throw  off  the  load  of  thought  that  encumbered 
him. 

"  I  will  go  upon  the  Campagna."  He  took  his  hat  as  he 
said  this,  threw  his  cloak  over  his  shoulders,  and  hastened 


Campo  Santo.  285 

down  the  narrow  stone  steps.  He  had  been  looking  at 
Annette,  loving  her,  worshiping  her,  talking  to  her,  taking 
her  into  his  heart.  Therefore  he  almost  hated  the  Countess. 

"  There  is  truly  a  bad  atmosphere  about  that  palace  of  the 
pink  Countess,  and  what  have  I  done  that  I  must  condemn 
myself  to  perpetually  inhale  it  ?  She  is  in  the  meshes  of 
some  great  grief  and  trouble,"  mused  the  man,  "  and  now 
why,  or  what  reason  there  is  that  I,  I  of  all  men,  should  take 
it  upon  myself  to  champion  her,  I  cannot  understand.  I  will 
not  !  There !  " 

He  snapped  his  fingers  as  if  he  had  sundered  the  cord  that 
bound  him  to  her,  and  then  threw  back  his  head  and  began  to 
whistle  as  he  went  on  down  the  street,  like  a  country  plough 
man. 

Carriages  were  pouring  past,  \ip,  and  down,  as  he  reached 
the  Corso,  and  they  were  full  of  beautiful  women,  and  fra 
grant  with  bouquets  and  enormous  baskets  of  roses. 

Sometimes  these  roses  would  be  thrown  in  a  perfect  shower 
from  carriage  to  carriage,  and  now  and  then  some  beautiful 
woman,  in  these  little  battles  of  the  roses,  would  be  almost 
covered  with  red  and  white  and  pink  as  she  sat  in  her  car 
riage.  This  to  Murietta  seemed  to  be  the  most  beautiful  and 
innocent  thing  of  all  the  carnival. 

His  spirits  rose  as  he  saw  so  much  levity,  such  innocent 
diversion,  and  so  many  light-hearted  and  happy  people,  and 
he  began  to  despise  himself  for  a  morbid  and  a  discontented 
man. 

"  I  will  join  them,"  thought  he.  "  I  can  get  a  carriage 
there  around  the  corner.  I  can  get  a  carriage  there  under 
the  palace  around  the  corner ;  but  where  can  I  get  a  beauti 
ful  woman  to  sit  by  my  side  and  challenge  the  volley  of 
roses  ?  " 

The  carriages  rolled  by  as  if  they  were  innumerable.  There 
were  mounted  cavaliers  throwing  roses  and  bantering  the 
beautiful  women,  and  lifting  their  hats  and  leaning  from  their 


286  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

horses  to  talk  in  whispers.  All  the  air  was  full  of  the  breath 
and  fragrance  of  the  country,  and  all  things  seemed  as  beauti 
ful  and  full  of  life  as  if  Home  was  one  great  ball-room,  hung 
with  flowers  and  filled  with  the  beauty  of  the  earth,  and  all 
were  moving  down  the  mazes  of  the  dance. 

The  man  lingered  here  a  long  time.  He  looked  and  peered 
into  every  carriage  with  an  eagerness  and  concern  and  anxiety 
on  his  face  that  was  not  to  be  mistaken.  Had  he  been  asked 
what  he  was  looking  for,  he  would  have  been  angry  even  with 
his  best  friend.  Had  he  asked  himself  what  he  sought  there, 
he  would  have  said  "  Nothing."  He  was  looking  for  An 
nette.  She  was  not  there. 

Suddenly  he  began  to  wonder  if  the  Countess  was  out  in 
this  glorious  air,  so  full  of  life,  and  health,  and  happiness. 

He  looked  up  at  the  sundial  and  saw  that  it  was  then  the 
very  hour  she  would  set  out  to  drive.  He  reflected  a  mo 
ment,  put  his  hand  to  his  brow,  stepped  back  and  was  star 
tled  as  he  lifted  his  face.  Annette  was  before  him,  driving 
down  the  Corso  on  a  perfect  carpet  of  flowers.  Princes,  sons 
of  kings,  were  scattering  roses  in  her  path. 

He  started  for  the  palace  of  the  Countess.  He  was 
jealous.  His  heart  was  always  steeped  in  sweets  or  bitter 
ness.  He  would  break  over  on  this  side  now  and  flow  to  an 
unreasonable  extreme,  and  then  would  go  as  far  the  other- 
way,  and  be  at  the  same  time  perfectly  sincere,  and  feel  certain 
that  he  was  right,  and  that  that  was  really  the  only  course 
for  him  to  take. 

True  enough,  there  she  sat  in  her  carriage;  and  as  the 
artist  approached  she  reached  him  her  hand,  as  if  reaching 
it  over  the  chasm  of  days  that  had  divided  them.  And  not 
one  word  did  she  whisper  of  reproach. 

"  I  have  been  waiting  for  you  for  half  an  hour." 

"  Waiting  for  me  ?  " 

11  Yes,  you  should  have  come  at  twelve." 

The  restless  horses  had  stamped  so  long  and  so  hard  on  the 


Campo  Santo.  287 

stones  of  the  court  that  the  doves  had  all  fluttered  and  flown 
away  and  up  to  the  sun  on  the  niches  and  arches  of  the 
palace,  and  little  Sunshine  had  muffled  himself  up,  and  was 
sitting  all  a-shiver  on  the  front  seat ;  for  nothing  is  more 
tantalizing,  and  chilling,  and  cheerless  than  the  courts  of 
these  damp,  dismal  palaces. 

"  You  are  so  very  fashionable,"  smiled  the  beautiful 
Countess,  as  she  half  rose  and  drew  her  pink  and  rose  robes 
to  one  side  to  give  place  to  the  artist. 

"  A  thousand  pardons,  lady,  I  feel  very  guilty.  But  then," 
he  added,  as  he  sat  down  by  the  rustling  robes  of  pink  and 
silk  and  lace,  "you  know  it  is  always  twelve  until  it  is  one, 
in  law." 

"  Yes,  in  law,  but  in  love  ?  " 

The  artist  was  glad  the  carriage  and  the  horses'  feet  on  the 
cobble  stones  of  Rome  preluded  a  reply,  for  he  was  certain 
the  Countess  used  the  last  word  in  the  remark,  not  with  any 
significance,  but  simply  because  it  fitted  in  there  and  was  a 
pleasant  word,  and  in  that  place  made  a  pretty  alliteration. 

This  very  often  happens  in  conversation.  Words  do  not 
always  have  the  same  weight  and  importance. 

There  was  a  beautiful  but  silent  scorn  of  the  gaieties  of 
Rome  on  the  part  of  the  Countess  that  day,  which  now  more 
pleased  the  moody  Murietta  than  anything  that  she  said  or 
could  have  said.  She  had  chosen  this  day,  this  "Feast 
of  Flowers,"  in  quite  another  sense. 

Turning  down  the  Via  Angelo  Custoda  they  passed  the 
Fountain  of  Trevi,  reached  the  Corso,  passed  the  resurrected 
and  exhumed  Forum  of  Trajan,  and,  crossing  the  old  Roman 
Forum,  soon  touched  the  Tiber  under  the  steep  and  north 
side  of  Mount  Aventine,  and  were  on  their  way  out  to  the 
Gate  of  St.  Paul. 

The  Countess  never  questioned  Murietta  as  to  whether  this 
drive  would  please  him  or  whether  that  would  displease  him. 
"  Whatever  she  may  be,"  mused  the  man  to  himself,  as  they 


288  The   One  Fair    Woman. 

sat  silent  all  the  time,  "  whatever  she  may  be  now,  or  what 
ever  troubles  encompass  her,  she  is  a  lady  who,  once  in  her 
life,  at  least,  has  known  no  will  or  whini  or  humour  but  her 
own." 

As  they  rolled  between  the  yellow  Tiber  to  the  left,  and 
the  steep  Aventine  covered  with  old  ruins  and  new  woods  to 
the  right,  the  lady  looked  up,  and  lifting  her  little  pink  hand 
to  the  top  of  the  mountain,  and  following  it  with  her  great 
hazel  eyes,  said — 

"  There  is  a  shrine  up  there,  would  you  care  to  see  it  as 
we  return  ?  " 

"  Well,  there  are  so  many  shrines  in  Rome,"  answered  the 
artist,  "  that  one  must  be  a  little  particular,  else  one  will 
never  get  through  with  them  all." 

"  But  this  one  is  very  old." 

"  And  pray  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  The  Tomb  of  Remus.  It  was  there  he  watched  the  flight 
of  the  birds,  and  there,  says  tradition,  he  was  buried." 

"  No,  I  do  not  care  to  see  it.  I  am  not  in  a  mood  to  visit 
tombs  to-day." 

"  Not  in  a  mood  to  visit  tombs  to-day  ?  But  you  must  be," 
said  the  lady,  looking  the  least  bit  troubled ;  u  do  you  see 
that  little  mountain  down  the  Tiber  there  with  the  great 
cross  at  the  top  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That  overlooks  the  Campo  Santo.  We  are  going  there ; 
it  is  the  prettiest  place  in  all  Rome.  We  will  visit  the  graves 
of  Keats  and  Shelley." 

After  passing  down  a  long  avenue  of  elm  and  locust  trees, 
they  turned  to  the  right  through  a  broad  gate,  and  passed  on 
to  the  south,  toward  the  great  marble  pyramid  built  in  the 
wall  of  Rome,  and  when  almost  against  the  wall  stopped  be 
fore  a  deep  moat  that  runs  around  the  old  Protestant  bury 
ing  ground. 

The  sexton  led  across  a  little  arched  bridge,  and  there,  in 


Campo  Santo.  289 

one  corner  of  the  island,  as  it  were,  with  its  few  trees  and 
many  flowers,  lifted  a  flat  faded  stone  without  any  name 
whatever.  For  that  name  has  been  "  writ  in  water." 

A  few  roses  were  blooming  pale  and  feebly  on  a  few  sickly 
bushes  that  had  struggled  ineffectually  with  the  thick  carpet 
ing  of  grass,  and  here  and  there  a  bright  margaretta  starred 
the  green  covering,  but  the  place  was  cheerless  and  lonesome, 
and  cold  from  the  shadows  of  the  trees  and  the  walls.  The 
grave  and  the  little  stones  had  been  restored  but  a  few  years 
before  by  a  sculptor  of  Rome,  who  had  come  from  the  New 
World,  and  the  strange  and  mournful  inscription  on  the  head 
stone  without  a  name  had  been  made  once  more  legible. 

That  man  lies  buried  now  up  yonder,  under  the  tall  dark 
cypresses  in  the  new  ground  against  the  wall  of  the  city,  and 
not  so  very  far  from  the  ashes  of  Shelley. 

Murietta,  on  first  taking  his  seat  in  the  carriage,  had 
thought  that  the  Countess  contemplated  a  revel  in  the  Carni 
val  of  Flowers  on  the  Corso,  for  there,  in  charge  of  the  foot 
man,  were  two  bi'oad  and  splendid  baskets  of  roses.  They 
were  destined  for  a  better  purpose,  these  flowers,  than  to  be 
trodden  under  the  feet  of  revellers. 

The  Countess  moved  about  the  grave  of  the  great  boy  poet 
as  silent  as  the  stone  that  stood  nameless  above  his  head. 
She  turned  to  her  footman  at  last,  and  made  a  si<m.  He 

*  O 

brought  the  basket  of  flowers,  and  while  he  held  it  in  his 
hand,  she  scattered  the  roses  above  his  dust,  and  then  de 
parted  in  silence.  She  had  not  spoken  one  word. 

It  is  but  a  stone's-throw  from  this  burying-ground — which 
is  now  full  and  closed  up — to  the  higher  and  more  beautiful 
ground  where  Shelley  has  his  last  resting-place. 

They  passed  through  a  great  iron  gate,  and  stood  at  once  in 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  flower-gardens  to  be  found  in  all 
that  land  of  flowers. 

The  keeper  knows  perfectly  well  what  the  stranger  wants 
who  enters  that  iron  gate.  His  hat  is  in  his  hand,  and  he 
13 


290  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

leads  at  once  slowly  up  through  the  garden  of  flowers,  up  the 
little  hill  between  the  long  row  of  tall,  dark  cypresses,  right 
against  the  very  top  of  the  wall  of  Rome.  The  old  man 
knows  full  well  that  but  two  classes  of  people  come  to  him 
there,  and  but  for  two  purposes :  one  is  the  traveller  who 
comes  to  visit  the  grave  of  Shelley,  and  the  other  is  the  man 
who  has  finished  his  travels  and  has  come  home  to  his  own 
grave. 

Whatever  beautiful  things  Shelley  may  have  said  of  the 
grave  of  Keats,  it  is  not  so  beautiful  now.  It  is  beautiful,  it 
is  true,  but  it  seems  so  very,  very  lonesome. 

But  here,  by  Shelley's  grave,  the  birds  sing.  The  sun  is 
always  here  when  it  is  anywhere  in  Rome  ;  and  then  the  spot 
is  lifted  so  high  and  so  much  above  all  the  other  world  that 
it  really  seems  nearer  to  heaven  than  any  other  place.  Even 
the  dark  and  mournful  trees  look  pleasant,  for  all  about  their 
feet  are  flowers  of  every  clime  and  color,  and  birds  are  in  the 
bushes. 

The  flat  stone  that  lies  above  the  sacred  ashes,  with  its 
well-known  inscription,  is  nestled  in  blooming  roses  that  nod 
and  toss  in  the  wind  that  blows  in  and  softly  around  the  wall 
from  the  Campagna. 

Others  had  set  flowers  there  that  day.  Ladies  had  come 
and  left  their  little  tokens,  and  their  gifts  lay  still  fresh  and 
unwithered  on  the  white  stone. 

The  earth  is  almost  level  here  with  the  top  of  the  wall. 
The  grave  of  Shelley  looks  over  the  Campagna,  and  you  can, 
on  a  day  of  singular  clearness,  see  the  Mediterranean  Sea 
from  the  port-hole  in  which  the  grave  is  very  nearly  placed. 

The  silent  Countess,  after  scattering  the  roses  on  the 
ground  and  around  the  stone,  taking  care  not  to  disturb  the 
gifts  of  those  who  had  come  before  her,  lest  they  should  be 
from  nearer  and  dearer  hands,  passed  through  the  little  half- 
open  door  that  had  been  placed  there  at  the  mouth  of  this 
port-hole,  and  stood  there  and  looked  away  to  the  south  on 


Campo  Santo.  291 

the  mighty  edifice  of  St.  Paulo  and  on  to  the  spot  where  the 
apostle  perished,  but  spoke  no  word. 

Birds  and  flowers  and  sunshine,  and  the  songs  of  peasants 
bore  in  from  the  fields  and  over  the  walls ;  dark  sweeping 
trees  and  pilgrims  coming  and  peering  from  under  their 
shadows  the  whole  year  through.  Surely  this  is  the  grave, 
if  such  a  grave  there  be,  to  make  a  man  "  in  love  with 
death." 

The  artist  followed  in  silence  this  silent  and  incomprehen 
sible  woman,  and  lifted  her  in  the  carriage  and  took  his  place 
by  her  side  with  a  feeling  almost  akin  to  reverence.  She 
seemed  to  him  now  to  have  something  of  that  soul  and  sym 
pathy  which  he  had  ever  in  his  heart  demanded  that  every 
one  should  have  before  they  entered  his  heart.  Here  was  a 
woman  cradled  in  the  lap  of  fortune,  a  beautiful  woman,  too, 
the  most  beautiful  woman  in  her  way  in  all  the  wide  woi'ld, 
a  woman  full  of  life  and  love,  who  had  turned  in  contempt 
from  the  follies  of  the  Corso,  where  all  the  world  had  met  to 
bandy  wit  and  challenge  and  mingle  in  the  Battle  of  Flowers, 
and  had  gono  aside  in  silence  to  scatter  roses  on  the  graves 
of  strangers. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 


A  BLUNT,  BUT  HONEST  MAN." 

HE  sun  was  dropping  down 
behind  the  great  gold  ball 
of  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's, 
as  the  Countess  drove,  with 
a  thousand  others,  up  the 
Pincian  Hill. 

It  looked  as  if  the  whole 
world  had  climbed  the  Pin 
cian  ;  as  if  there  had  been  a 
deluge  and  every  one  had  come  up 
.here   out   of  the   dark   shadows,  to 
stand  in  the  last  bright  rays  of  the 
sun  and  escape. 

What  a  gregarious  people  these 
Italians  are  !  They  are  like  a  flock 
of  sheep ;  wherever  the  leader  goes 
the  rest  will  follow,  and  not  give  it  athought  or  make  any 
question.  But  this  was  the  season,  and  the  full  blossom  and 
flower  of  the  season,  on  this  little  hill  and  around  this  little 
drive  among  the  figures  and  around  the  fountains. 

The  music  played  under  the  great  palm  tree  as  the  sun 
settled  behind  St  Peter's,  with  a  melody  and  sweetness  that 
Murietta  had  never  known  before. 


A  Blunt  biit  Honest  Man.  293 

A  thousand  handsome  men,  the  handsomest  men  by  far 
in  all  the  world,  were  there  in  their  gorgeous  uniforms  glit 
tering  in  the  sun  as  they  moved  to  and  fro,  mixed  with  the 
crowd,  or  passed  from  carriage  to  carriage  lifting  their  hats 
to  the  ladies. 

The  band  stopped  playing  for  a  moment,  and  the  mass  of 
carriages  moved  on,  one,  two,  three,  four  abreast,  and  fast  as 
the  gay  horses  could  whirl  and  spin  about  the  little  circle. 
The  whole  hill  was  blossoming  with  carriages,  and  every 
carriage  was  blossoming  with  beautiful  women  clad  in  every 
color  of  the  rainbow. 

Then  the  band  began  to  play  again,  and  again  the  carriages 
drew  up  on  the  broad  gravel  before  the  great  palrn  tree,  and 
listened  and  looked  at  the  sun  hiding  down  behind  St.  Peter's 
or  laughed  and  talked  and  made  love  with  their  eyes. 

The  carriage  of  the  Countess,  either  by  accident  or  by  quiet 
and  unobserved  direction,  was  kept  well  out  on  the  edge  of 
the  immense  crowd,  and  but  few  acquaintances  were  en 
countered  ;  and  these  few  the  silent  Countess  dismissed  with 
well-directed  monosyllables,  as  if  they  had  been  little  single- 
handed  stabs  aimed  at  their  vitals,  and  she  was  left  much  to 
herself.  As  for  Marietta,  probably  he  had  not  spoken  ten. 
words  all  day. 

There  was  a  hat  fluttering  in  the  air  in  the  face  of  the 
Countess,  as  if  to  attract  her  attention,  for  she  was  looking 
dreamingly  away  toward  the  gold  and  fire  of  the  falling  sun. 

She  caught  her  breath  as  she  saw  this  hat,  and  her  little 
hands  clutched  in  her  rose  and  pink  and  lace,  and  her  face  was 
deadly  pale. 

The  hat,  however,  was  replaced,  and  the  man  with  his  old 
gesture,  as  if  he  would  say,  "  I  am  a  blunt  but  honest,  sailor 
who  carries  his  heart  in  his  hand,"  passed  on  and  joined  the 
Count  and  Prince  Trawaska,  and  a  group  of  other  gentlemen 
who  stood  beneath  one  of  the  little  sycamores  talking  and 
watching  the  gay  whirl  of  fashion  in  the  carriages. 


294  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

The  Countess  was  suffering  terribly.  The  old  Admiral  knew 
this,  too,  for  as  he  passed  on  he  threw  a  glance  over  his 
shoulder,  looked  hard  and  steadfast  for  a  second  in  her  pale 
and  pitiful  face,  as  if  to  be  perfectly  certain  that  his  arrow  had 
gone  to  the  heart,  and  then  passed  on  with  a  swing  and  flour 
ish  of  his  cane  and  a  leer  of  satisfaction  on  his  iron  face. 

The  lady  put  her  hand  to  her  throat,  she  clutched  at  her 
clothes,  and  was  for  a  moment  in  great  agony,  and  for  a  time 
it  seemed  doubtful  if  she  could  rally  without  assistance< 
Murietta  caught  her  hand,  tore  off  the  little  pink  glove,  and 
began  chafing  it,  and  tried  to  coax  the  frightened  blood  back 
and  out  from  her  heart  and  into  her  hands  and  face  again. 

As  he  did  this,  the  old  Admiral  again  elbowed  his  way 
through  the  crowd  near  the  carriage,  and  led  the  Count  and 
his  friends,  or  followers,  whichever  they  may  have  been,  in 
his  wake. 

The  Admiral  looked  hard  into  the  carriage  at  Murietta, 
half  stooped,  whispered  to  a  man  at  his  side,  spoke  to  the 
Count,  who  lifted  his  hat  very  civilly  and  respectfully  to  his 
wife,  and  so  went  on. 

This  time  the  Countess  was  almost  utterly  overcome.  She 
bit  her  lips  till  they  bled.  She  sank  back  into  the  carriage, 
and  it  was  with  the  greatest  effort  that  she  could  be  aroused. 

"  He  will  murder  me  yet."  She  whispered  this  to  herself, 
and  when  Murietta  asked  her  if  she  really  feared  this  man 
would  harm  her,  she  would  not  answer,  but  looked  away 
again  at  the  sun  dying  in  a  sea  of  blood,  and  was  still  silent 
and  very  pale. 

At  last  the  carriages  in  front  began  to  move,  It  woiild  be 
but  a  few  minutes  till  the  carriage  of  the  Countess  also  must 
move  on  and  give  room. 

She  turned  to  the  artist  and  looked  at  him  with  the  same 
sad  longing,  the  same  lonely  and  pitiful  expression  he  had 
seen  in  her  face  at  Genoa,  and  said  : 

"  I  have  something  on  my  niind,  on  my  hands.     It   is  a 


A  Blunt  but  Honest  Man.  295 

matter  of  liberty,  perhaps  my  life  is  involved.  I  may  be 
imprisoned  before  I  am  out  again.  I  must  prepare  for 
something  terrible.  Will  you  do  me  one  favor  ?  " 

"  I  will  do  anything  in  my  power  to  serve  you,  lady," 
answered  the  artist,  with  all  the  earnestness  and  determina 
tion  of  a  nature  now  aroused  and  ready  for  much. 

After  a  moment's  silence  the  Coimtess  began  more  quietly, 
"  I  am  so  situated  that  I  am  worse  than  alone.  I  must  drive 
out,  and  keep  up  my  strength,  and  dare  not  go  out  alone. 
That  man  will  not  murder  me  with  a  knife.  He  will  not 
spill  one  drop  of  blood,  but  he  will  kill  me  as  certainly  as  I 
meet  him  when  alone,  and  he  will  do  it  deliberately  and  by 
inches." 

"  But,  my  dear  lady,  I  do  not  understand." 

"  No,  you  do  not  understand,  and  you  do  not  promise." 

<c  I  do,  I  do  promise."  If  you  are  in  danger,  or  if  any 
lady  is  in  danger,  or  if  you  even  imagine  you  are  in  danger, 
what  better  can  I  do,  what  else  have  I  to  do,  in  this  sullen, 
weary  world  " — the  man  was  almost  on  his  feet — "  than  to 
stand  up  and  protect  you  ?  " 

"  Gently,  gently,"  whispered  the  Countess,  "you  are  grow 
ing  wild,  you  will  ruin  everything.  But  listen.  Some  day 
I  may  be,  in  trouble,  what  then  ?  " 

"  Send  for  me,"  answered  the  artist,  firmly  and  emphati 
cally. 

"  If  I  am  ill,"  she  began  again,  in  a  low  voice,  "  or  if  I 
should  be  imprisoned,  do  you  understand  ?  " 

"I— I  think  I " 

"  No,  no,  you  do  not  understand.  Look  here.  If  a  lady 
should  send  to  you — send  her  maid — could  send  nothing  like 
a  note  or  letter,  or  other  message,  and  tell  you  she  was  a 
prisoner  and  required  your  help,  what  would  you  do?  " 

"  Well,  I  suppose  the  correct  thing  to  do  would  be  to  go 
the  consul  representing  the  country  from  which  the  lady 
came  and — " 


296  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  And  get  laughed  at  for  your  pains." 

The  carriages  were  moving  off.  The  Countess  laid  her 
little  hand  on  the  arm  of  Marietta,  and  again  looked  in  his 
face. 

"  If  I  some  day  send  my  maid  to  you,  will  you  come  to 
me,  and  at  once,  and  contrive  to  get  a  message  from  me  to 
my  father  ?  " 

"  Come  to  you  !  I  will  come  to  you  for  that  purpose  if  I 
have  to  come  through  fire  1  " 

She  looked  at  the  man's  passionate  and  determined  face, 
and  seemed  satisfied.  She  took  her  hand  from  his  arm  as  the 
carriage  whirled  down  the  serpentine  road  between  the  rows 
of  sycamore  trees,  and  looking  once  more  into  his  face,  said 
softly : 

"  You  will  remember  ?  " 

"  I  will  remember." 

They  stood  together  at  the  palace  door,  but  the  artist  re 
fused  to  enter ;  and  she  said,  looking  back  with  her  pink  foot 
on  the  threshold: 

"  No  ?  you  will  not  dine  with  me  to-day  ?  Then  to 
morrow  you  will  be  sure  to  be  with  me  by  twelve,  and  we 
will  find  a  new  drive  outside  the  walls."  And  then  the  lady 
disappeared  within  before  he  could  say  nay. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 


AT    THE    ROMAN    RACE-COURSE. 


HERE  was  certainly  something 
very  remarkable  in  the  conduct 
of  this  Count  Edna.     No  man 
could  be  more  gentle.   All  men 
spoke  of  him  with  kindness; 
the  ladies  even  spoke  of  him 
with  affection;  yet  he  seemed 
to    be  not  only  helpless,   but 
willingly  so.      He  allowed  this 
monster,  who  seemed  to  be  his  master, 
to  torture  his  wife  to  the  verge  of  in 
sanity.     He  even  allowed    her   to   be 
driven  to  do  and  say  very  unreasonable 
things,  and  then  let  these  very  things 
be  set.  down  by  the  world  as  evidence 
of  her  insanity. 
All  this  was  not  only  remarkable  but  was  also  very  unrea 
sonable.     In  fact,  had  these  things  not  been  remarkable  and 
even  unreasonable,  I  do  not  know  that  I  should  have  taken 
the  pains  to  tell  them. 

Marietta  came  next  day   early,  even  before  the  Countess 

was  yet  in  her  carriage,  and  sat  in  the  parlor  and  talked  with 

the  gentle  Count,  for  the  old  Admiral  was  not  yet  to  be  seen, 

and  talked  of  art  and  other  things,  and  found  him  really  in 

13* 


298  The  One  Fair    Woman. 

all  respects,  or  to  all  appearances  at  least,  a  perfect  gentle 
man. 

He  even  assisted  the  Countess  to  her  carriage,  lifted  his  hat 
as  they  drove  away,  and  then  stood  on  the  steps  looking  after 
her. 

All  that  afternoon  did  Marietta  sit  by  the  silent  Countess, 
as  they  drove  out  through  one  of  the  many  gates  of  the  Eter 
nal  City  and  to  the  Campagna. 

Nothing  was  said,  nothing  transpired  worth  repeating,  and 
the  artist  began  to  imagine  that  all  his  fears  were  groundless, 
idle,  and  bred  of  his  or  her  own  brain. 

He  enjoyed  these  drives  thoroughly.  How  few  people 
have  the  good  sense  to  sit  silent  in  the  carriage  as  they  drive 
through  the  groves,  and  let  God  speak  ! 

All  day  these  two  would  sit  together  as  they  whirled 
around  the  green  hills  or  drove  through  the  wood  and  out  of 
the  sun,  and  often  not  one  word  would  be  spoken. 

Every  day,  every  drive,  Murietta  felt  that  he  was  going 
further  and  further  away  from  Annette,  and  in  his  heart  he 
was  very  glad,  for  he  felt  that  he  was  once  more  becoming  his 
own  master. 

The  ai-tist  now  often  met  the  Count  at  the  palace  and  else 
where,  and  he  was  always  very  friendly,  yet  a  little  mysterious 
and  reserved.  He  was  often  intoxicated,  yet  to  all  appearances 
a  perfect  gentleman  and  man  of  the  world. 

The  Admiral,  too,  was  now  often  to  be  seen  both  in  social 
circles,  at  the  rides  and  elsewhere,  and  always  he  was  the 
same  imperious  and  insolent  bully,  both  in  action  and  expres 
sion,  and  always  had  a  circle  of  his  followers  about  him.  At 
such  times  the  Count  Edna  was  a  mere  cipher,  and  was 
hardly  to  be  heard. 

Still,  the  presence  of  this  ponderovis  chin  had  lost  its  old 
terror  to  Murietta,  and  he  had  come  to  admit  that  thei'e 
might  be  very  much  worse  things  in  the  world  than  a  man 
who  was  always  blustering  about  like  a  March  wind,  and 


At  the  Roman  Race- Course.  299 

swearing  that  he  was  a  rough  but  honest  sailor  who  always 
carried  his  heart  in  his  hand. 

He  became  as  familiar  with  every  gate,  every  road,  every 
one  of  the  twenty  beautiful  drives  in  and  all  around  Rome, 
as  with  his  own  narrow  stairs,  rows  of  cats,  and  blue  Madon 
nas  on  the  side  of  the  Tarpeian  Rock. 

The  Countess  would  now  drive  down  past  his  little 
tower  on  the  Rock,  send  up  her  footman,  and,  without 
even  a  sound,  save  the  rustle  of  the  pink  and  rose  silk  robes, 
that  seemed  to  whisper  pretty  songs  of  sentiment  and 
love,  he  would  take  his  seat  beside  her,  and  then  they  would 
whirl  away  to  the  most  unfrequented  and  most  pleasant  drive, 
and  only  stopping  now  and  then  for  a  glass  of  "  Est  est "  or 
buns  for  the  little  Sunshine  at  some  one  of  the  wayside  inns, 
they  would  spend  fiill  half  of  the  alluring,  balmy,  beautiful 
day,  sitting  there  behind  the  strong  spirited  horses,  watching 
the  work  of  summer,  the  coming  and  going  of  strange  men 
up  and  down  the  roads  of  Rome,  the  stacking  up  of  the  tall 
Indian  corn  in  the  fertile  fields,  the  brown  harvesters  bend 
ing  to  the  scythe,  or  would  look  away  at  the  bent  and  curved 
new  moon  that  hung  in  the  west  against  the  blue  bent  walls 
of  heaven,  as  bright  and  clear  as  if  it  had  just  been  cut  and 
fashioned  from  new  and  polished  silver. 

"  And  this  is  best,"  said  Murietta  to  himself,  over  and 
over  again,  "  come  what  comes  of  it,  I  will  not  deny  myself 
the  gifts  of  the  gods.  I  will  no  longer  play  the  hermit. 
These  fields  are  finer  than  the  shadows  of  the  Tarpeian  Rock. 
There  is  rest  and  repose  in  this  gorgeous  beauty,  and  the 
strength  and  movement  of  these  spirited  horses  gives  me  life 
and  lets  my  blood  run  warm  and  natural.  This  beautiful, 
silent  lady  by  my  side  is  inspiration  itself.  I  will  take  the 
gifts  of  the  gods  and  be  glad." 

There  was  a  great  gathering  of  men  and  women  outside  the 
walls,  four  or  five  miles  to  the  south  of  the  city,  at  a  place 
called  Old  Rome. 


300  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

This  Old  Rome  is  said  to  be  the  site  of  a  city  once  as 
mighty  as  Rome  itself  when  Rome  was  the  capital  of  the 
Caesars.  Yet  all  you  see  there  now  is  a  succession  of  mounds 
and  long  reaches  of  moles  and  little  hills  that  certainly  were 
not  placed  there  by  accident  or  by  the  sport  of  Nature. 

These  little  mounds  are  topped  in  many  cases  by  groves  of 
olive,  and  sometimes  by  palm  and  pine  and  orange  trees  ; 
though  they  are  usually  white  with  flocks  of  sheep,  and  bare 
of  anything  save  coats  of  grass.  The  people  there  are  thin, 
sleepy,  skin-clad  shepherds,  with  little  white  woolly  and  most 
vicious  dogs. 

As  the  Countess  and  the  ai'tist  drove  upon  this  ground  on 
this  great  gala  day,  there  was  a  battle  going  on  between  a 
duke  of  the  house  of  Rusk  and  a  Hapsburg.  Each  prince 
had  gathered  his  friends  and  followers  about  him  ;  and  ihen, 
buying  up  all  the  oranges  they  could  procure  from  the  many 
little  stands  all  along  the 'road  and  around  the  grand  stand 
and  the  race-course,  for  this  was  the  great  day  for  the  sports 
of  the  turf,  they  began  to  pour  in  upon  each  other  volley  after 
volley  of  oranges. 

Sometimes  one  party,  with  their  hats  or  arms  full  of 
oranges,  would  sally  forth  from  their  fortress  and  attempt  to 
carry  the  works  of  the  enemy  by  storm,  but  would  always  be 
driven  back  hatless  and  hot,  and  sometimes  with  bleeding 
noses,  to  their  own  mound,  where,  perhaps,  three  or  four 
thousand  years  before  had  stood  as  gorgeous,  and  high,  and 
sacred  a  temple  as  anything  now  to  be  found  on  the  face  of 
the  earth. 

Ladies  would  laugh  and  lift  their  little  hands,  and  wave 
their  handkerchiefs  and  cheer  the  successful  party  in  a  way 
that  made  one  almost  feel  that  it  was  real  life,  and  quite  in 
accord  with  human,  or  at  least  woman,  nature. 

The  red  flag  shot  up  above  the  grand  stand,  where  stood 
the  king  of  Italy,  under  cover,  with  his  courtiers  around 
him ;  the  word  was  given,  and  the  dust  of  Old  Rome  trem- 


At  the  Roman  Race-Course.          301 

bled  under  the  flying  feet  of  a  hundred  splendid  horses, 
brought  from  that  little  wintry  island  away  out  yonder  on 
the  edge  of  the  world,  in  the  ultima  Thule,  to  where  Caesar's 
soldiers  hesitated  to  follow  him. 

And  English  riders,  English  owners,  English  everything, 
even  the  man  who  tiptoed  up  in  the  crowd  and  even  climbed 
on  to  the  wheel  of  the  Countess's  carriage  to  get  a  glimpse  of 
his  favourite  English  horse,  swore  in  English  as  he  saw  him 
dropping  behind,  and  by  that  act  drawing  hard  English  coin 
from  the  pocket  of  his  English  backer. 

All  the  world  was  here.  The  little  mounds  for  miles 
around  were  black  with  armies  of  people  gathered  there  to 
shout  and  clap  their  hands  and  toss  their  hats  over  the  winner 
of  the  day,  whoever  he  might  be,  after  the  fashion  of  the 
•world. 

The  king  applauded  too.  A  stout  black  man,  in  black 
clothes,  with  a  black  beard,  and  black  bushy  hair,  that  grew 
very  low  down  on  his  forehead,  he  stood  there  with  his  naked 
brown  hands  clasped  over  the  rail  when  the  race  was  done, 
and  looking  down  at  the  band  that  struck  up  the  national 
air.  He  looked  very  tired  of  it  all,  and  as  if  he  was  intoler 
ably  bored,  and  wanted  to  get  back  to  his  hills,  in  north  Italy, 
and  to  his  boar  hunts  in  the  Alps. 

How  black  and  ugly  and  brigandish  he  looked  in  his  great 
black  slouch  hat,  his  plain,  black,  slovenly  clothes,  and  with 
his  monstrous  black  moustache  curling  up  and  out  like  the 
horns  of  a  vicious  black  buffalo  bull. 

"  Santa  Maria  !  '*  said  a  monk  at  the  side  of  the  carriage, 
as  he  crossed  himself,  "he  looks  like  the  devil  !  " 

Yet,  that  fierce,  ugly  old  man,  standing  there,  stood  with 
the  weight  of  all  new  Italy  on  his  shoulders.  There  was  the 
look  and  the  action  of  something  more  than  the  king  in  this 
man,  standing  there,  trying  to  look  pleased  at  the  mob  of  a 
million  strong,  that  had  gathered  that  day  to  waste  the  pre 
cious  time,  while  half  the  fields  of  Italy  lay  fallow.  He  looked 


302  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

a  very  Titan.  You  felt  that  the  ground  would  tremble  when 
he  moved.  His  very  awkwardness  was  grace  and  strength 
and  majesty.  Amid  the  swarms  of  popinjays  in  satins  and 
silks  and  lace  and  feathers,  it  was  so  refreshing  to  see  this 
old  grizzly  standing  there  so  perfectly  individual,  so  solely 
original,  so  very  much  alone,  so  manly  and  so  kingly.  He 
is,  perhaps,  the  only  king  to-day  that  has  a  throne. 

The  Count  Paolini,  with  Miss  Mollie  and  Mrs.  Wopsus 
and  the  General,  sat  in  a  carriage  but  a  little  way  to  the  left. 
They  bowed  to  the  Countess,  and  the  General  and  the  Count 
got  down  and  elbowed  their  way  through  the  crowd  and  came 
to  pay  their  respects  to  the  lady  in  pink. 

How  sweetly  she  smiled  as  they  bowed  before  her  and 
called  her  the  Countess  ! 

Marietta  marked  this  more  than  ever  on  that  day.  He 
had  seen  and  often  remarked  this  before  ;  but  to-day  it  struck 
him  with  such  singular  clearness  that  he  made  a  note  of  it  in 
his  mind,  and  it  took  place  there  as  the  key  by  which  a  mys 
tery  might  be  unravelled. 

When  these  gentlemen  withdrew,  and  again  as  they  bowed 
themselves  away,  repeatedly  called  her  the  Countess,  she  again 
smiled,  and  seemed  more  satisfied  with  this  common  appellation 
than  with  all  the  splendid  scene  before  her,  or  all  the  Italian 
compliments  the  Count  Paolini  had  paid  her  beauty  and  her 
wit  that  day. 

"  Let  me  see,"  he  mused,  as  his  face  rested  on  his  upturned 
hand,  and  he  lounged  back  in  the  carriage  and  looked  at  the 
king,  who  still  stood  there  clutching  on  to  the  rail  before  him, 
and  looking  down  at  the  fiddlers  and  pipers  in  gold  and  lace 
and  tassels  and  cock's  feathers.  "  Let  me  see.  Here  was  a 
young  American  girl,  full  of  romance,  and  fed  on  Italian 
novels  written  by  men  who  never  saw  Italy  and  all  glittering 
with  gems  and  gold,  and  set  with  high-sounding  names  of 
titled  men  who  were  always  the  soul  of  chivalry  and  honor. 
She  was  a  child  of  fortune,  and  blessed  with  beauty,  and 


At  the  Roman  Race-Course.          303 

therefore  flattered  on  every  hand,  till  her  little  untried  brain 
was  fairly  turned. 

"  Then  there  came  this  Italian  or  foreign  count  of  what 
ever  country  he  may  be,  and  his  gentle  manners,  and  his 
sweet  and  insinuating  words,  and  his  title,  most  of  all,  made 
him  an  object  of  interest.  Then  this  man,  this  foreign  count, 
a  Brother  of  the  Altar,  sat  down  before  her  as  a  general 
would  sit  down  before  a  besieged  town ;  he  made  his  calcula 
tions  with  the  same  coolness,  the  same  deliberation,  the  same 
estimation  of  the  loss  of  time,  of  money,  and  other  operations, 
as  a  general  would  make  in  a  campaign  or  a  siege  ;  counted 
the  probabilities  of  gain,  the  possibilities  of  loss,  and  so  sat 
down,  and  so  besieged  and  won  and  carried  her  away  to  his 
own  land.  And  then,"  continued  the  artist,  following  up  the 
train  of  his  fancy,  "  we  will  suppose  the  lady,  when  it  was 
too  late,  discovered  her  fearful  mistake,  but  still  fond  and 
proud  of  her  rank  and  title,  cherished  it,  was  more  pleased 
with  it  than  anything  else,  despite  the  awful  price  she  had 
paid  for  it ;  and  so  in  the  face  of  the  world  kept  her  secrets, 
and  stood  between  her  spouse  and  his  exposure." 

What  the  lady  at  his  side  was  thinking  of  or  guessing  at, 
no  one  may  know,  for  she  was  a  remarkable  woman — a  woman 
without  curiosity,  and  a  woman  who  could  keep  silent  for  a 
month,  and  who  could  keep  her  secrets  for  ever. 

The  band  ceased  playing,  the  king  with  a  sigh  of  relief 
loosed  his  hooked  hands  from  the  railings  before  him,  and 
turned  his  broad  shoulders  to  our  party  in  the  carriage,  and 
walked  to  the  other  side  of  the  Stand,  for  the  red  flag  was 
again  flying,  and  the  English  horses  were  again  making  the 
dust  of  Old  Rome  fly  in  the  face  of  the  king  of  New  Italy. 

"  Note  him  well,  Guiseppe.  Jesus  !  if  you  were  only  as 
good  a  hand  with  a  pistol  as  you  are  with  a  plate  of  maccaroni, 
you  might  rid  the  earth  of  the  black  brute  even  at  this  dis 
tance,  and  then  take  shelter  under  a  priest's  gown,  and  never 
once  be  suspected.  Christ !  what  a  splendid  opportunity  !  " 


304  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

"  Oh  !  "  whispered  Guiseppe,  "  but  you  are  always  urging 
others  to  do  things  that  you  never  dream  of  daring  to  do 
yourself." 

"  Guiseppe,  a  general  does  not  touch  a  musket  or  apply  the 
match.  I  am  the  leader  of  the  party.  I  cannot  afford  to  do 
this  thing,  nor  can  the  order  afford  to  allow  me  to  do  it." 

Murietta  heard  all  this  distinctly,  although  it  was  whis 
pered  and  hissed  between  the  teeth,  and  back  behind  the  car 
riage  of  the  Countess.  Long  training  and  experience  on  the 
border,  where  men  lie  awake  at  night  listening  for  the  tawny 
enemy,  where  a  man's  life  depends  on  his  watchfulness,  had 
sharpened  his  senses  beyond  his  fellows. 

"  That  is  the  same  assassin  that  stands  under  my  Madonna. 
We  shall  meet  again,"  said  Murietta  to  himself. 

They  soon  after  returned,  and  the  artist  at  the  steps  of  the 
palace  took  leave  of  the  Countess. 

She  ascended  the  steps  and  he  passed  out  and  down  to  the 
Gaffe  Creco,  a  bohemian  head-quarters,  where  he  sometimes 
fell  in  for  an  hour's  pastime  and  a  lunch  or  a  glass  of  in 
different  wine. 


CHAPTER    XXXYI. 


A   MARCH   HAKE    AND   A   HATTER. 

OME  old  friends  sat  there  as  the  ar 
tist  entered  the  cafe,  and  he  felt  that 
they  were  a  little  cold  and  chilly  in 
their  behaviour.      Away  down  in  a 
corner,  two  artists  sat  at  a  little  mar 
ble  table  together,  and  they  laid  their 
heads  close  together,  as  if  they  were 
whispering.     One  of  them  was  strok 
ing  and  patting  the  large  round  head 
of  a  great  spotted  dog,  as  he  alternately 
sipped  his  wine  and  laid  his  head  over  towards 
the  head  of  his  companion,   and  looked  up  at 
Marietta. 

Over  to  the  left,  on  the  other  side,  an  Ameri 
can  artist  spoke  to  a  French  artist  and  looked 
at  Murietta.  The  French  artist  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  and  then  sat  still,  and  left  the  American  artist  to 
translate  that  remark  as  he  chose. 

Carlton  arose  and  came  forward,  as  the  one  particular 
friend  of  the  artist,  but  even  he  was  a  little  stiff  and"  ceremo 
nious,  as  Murietta  threw  off  his  cloak  and  sat  by  his  side  at  a 
table,  and  ordered  wine  for  both. 

"  You  have  been  away  from  us  so  long,  so  very,  very  long ; 
why  we  hardly  know  you  ! " 


306  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  So  very  long  ?  Why,  I  have  seen  you,  my  friend 
Carlton,  nearly  every  day  for  the  last  fortnight." 

"  Yes,  from  a  splendid  carriage  by  the  side  of  a  mad 
countess  and  another  man's  wife,  and — " 

"  Good  God  !  " — the  artist  sprang  to  his  feet  and  almost 
upset  the  wine  that  had  just  been  brought — "  what  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"  Sit  down !     The  whole  cafe  is  noticing  you  !  " 

The  artist  sat  and  filled  a  glass  to  the  brim.  Then,  tossing 
it  ofi',  he  said, 

"  But  tell  me,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Mean  ?  Really,  I  mean  nothing.  Not  I,  but  the  world, 
that  is,  the  little  meddlesome,  mischievous  American  world 
here,  is  talking  of  you  and  the  Countess,  and  the  Countess  and 
you,  and  nothing  else,  and  it  has  been  doing  so  for  the  last 
fortnight.  Can  it  be  possible  that  you  do  not  know  it  ?  " 

"  Know  it !  I  did  not  dream  of  it !  Besides,  look  here  !  " 
he  caught  the  man  half  savagely  by  the  breast  of  his  coat, 
"  you  know  me,  you  know  my  affections  lie  in  another  field, 
you  know,  you  knew,  when  you  heard  people  use  her  name 
and  mine,  that  it  was  utterly  impossible  that  1  should  do,  nay 
think,  an  improper  thing  in  this  connection !  " 

"  Yes,  I  knew  it." 

"  A_nd  what  did  you  say  to  these  meddlers  ?  " 

"  What  should  I  have  said  ?  " 

"  You  should  have  told  them  they  lied,  and  you  should 
have  driven  the  lie  down  their  throats  !  Not  for  my  sake, 
Carlton,  not  for  mine  !  my  name  will  take  care  of  itself,  and 
in  the  teeth  of  the  woi-ld  I  shall  pass  unstained  like  a  hard 
cold  stone ;  but  for  her  sake,  for  her,  knowing  what  you 
knew  of  me,  for  you  have  broken  bread  at  her  table ;  and 
whatever  a  merchant  may  do  or  a  politician  may  devise,  a 
man — a  man,  mark  you,  who  takes  my  hand  and  holds  friend 
ship  with  me,  takes  on  himself  the  responsibilities  of  a  man, 
and  stands  between  an  honest  woman  and  an  insolent  world." 


A  March  Hare  and  a  Hatter.         307 

The  artist  had  risen  up,  gathered  his  cloak  about  him  and 
was  about  to  pass  out. 

"  Hear  me,  one  word  !  Heaven  knows  my  friendship  for 
you,  and  I  know  your  simplicity  and  your  sincerity.  Pray 
sit  one  moment  and  let  us  not  part  thus,  for  you  wrong  me 
now,  as  you  are  always  wronging  yourself." 

Murietta  muffled  his  cloak  closer  about  him  and  sat  down. 

"  Now,  hear  me.  You  are  too  impetuous.  You  know  as 
little  of  the  world  as  you  do  of  women.  You  bring  with 
you  all  the  freedom  and  movement  of  the  plains.  You  would 
tomahawk  a  man  as  if  you  were  a  Comanche." 

The  artist  tapped  the  stone  floor  of  the  cafe  fiercely  with 
his  foot.  "  All  Rome  then  is  talking  of  that  gentle  and  un 
happy  lady  !  All  Rome  is  also  talking  of  me  !  And  the 
fair  Annette !  What  has  she  heard  and  what  will  she 
say?" 

The  world  looked  black  to  Murietta.  He  was  almost 
blind  with  passion  and  tumultuous  thought.  Suddenly  he 
turned  to  Carlton. 

"  Well,  my  politic  and  most  civilized  friend,"  began  he, 
sharply  and  bitterly,  "  what  would  you  have  me  do  ?  " 

"  With  the  present  state  of  affairs,  nothing,"  answered 
Carlton  gently.  "  I  should  simply  employ  my  own  carriage, 
let  the  kind  and  gentle  Count  Edna,  who  has  the  sympathy 
and  respect  of  all  Rome,  ride  with  and  take  care  of  his  own 
wild  wife,  while  I  took  care  of  my  own  reputation." 

"  I  shall  drive  with  the  Countess  to-morrow !  " 

"  Yes,  perhaps  you  will  drive  with  the  Countess  to  hell  !  " 

"  Mai'k  you,"  Murietta  leaned  over  and  shook  his  finger 
in  the  face  of  his  cool  and  prudent  friend,  "  mark  you,  if 
ever  any  man,  even  though  that  man  be  her  husband,  dares 
wag  his  tongue  against  that  woman,  he  dies,  by  heaven !  " 

"  No,  no,  no,  no.  That  is  not  the  way  to  live  ;  that  is  not 
the  way  to  get  on.  If  you  will  insist  on  your  war-dance, 
put  on  your  war-paint  and  go  back  to  your  Mexican  border.'* 


308  -  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

Cai-lton  had  reached  and  taken  the  artist  by  his  arm  and 
half  forced  him  back  again  into  his  seat. 

The  cool  half  humor  of  his  friend  did  more  to  pacify  him 
than  a  dozen  sermons ;  and,  sitting  still  a  moment,  he  leaned 
over  to  Carlton  and  said,  "  I  am  not  curious,  or  at  least  T 
hope  not  vulgarly  so ;  but  please  tell  me  what  some  of  these 
meddlesome  gossip-mongers  have  been  saying." 

"  Well,"  began  Carlton  quietly,  "  do  you  remember  the 
little  fairy  story  in  the  '  Child's  Primer,"  about  the  March 
Hare  and  the  Hatter  ?  " 

"  No  ;  and  what  the  devil  has  a  March  hare  and  a  hatter 
to  do  with  me  and  the  Countess  ?  " 

"  Listen,  and  you  shall  hear." 

Marietta  again  tapped  the  stone  floor  with  his  foot,  and 
biting  his  lips,  sat  eager  to  listen. 

Carlton  filled  his  glass,  drank  it  off — filled  that  of  Murietta, 
waited  for  him  to  empty  it,  or  at  least  sip  at  it  in  the  old 
Italian  fashion,  and  then  he  deliberately  began : 

"  Well,  this  fairy  tale  was  after  this  fashion  :  Once  upon 
a  time  a  little  girl  was  lost  in  fairy-land,  and  she  did  not 
know  her  way  out.  At  last  she  came  to  the  forks  of  the 
road,  and  there  in  the  way  sat  an  old  woman  with  a  short 
pipe  in  her  mouth. 

"  '  Madam,  can  you  tell  me  which  road  I  shall  take  to  find 
my  way  home  ?  ' 

"  '  Well,  my  child,  if  you  turn  to  the  right  and  follow  that 
road,  it  will  lead  you  to  the  house  of  the  hatter.  But,  mark 
you,  the  hatter  is  mad — mad  as  a  March  hare  !  ' 

"  The  little  girl  shuddered,  and  turned  and  looked  down 
the  other  road,  and  then  timidly  asked  if  she  should  not, 
then,  take  that  road. 

" '  Take  it  if  you  like,  my  child,  take  it  if  you  like ;  but 
mark  you,  down  that  road  there  lives  the  March  hare,  and 
the  March  hare  is  mad — mad  as  a  hatter  !  ' : 

Carleton  stopped,  laughed  a  little,  and  then  filled  his  glass 


A  March  Hare  and  a  Hatter.        309 

and  drank  it  off  at  a  gulp,  for  ho  was  an  American  and   did 
not  know  how  to  drink  wine. 

"  Well,"  said  Marietta,  "  well,  well !  "  his  foot  tapped  in 
a  terrible  tattoo  on  the  stone  floor.  "  What,  in  the  name 
of  all  the  saints — what,  in  the  name  of  all  the  saints,  has  this 
mad  hatter  and  this  mad  March  hare  to  do  with  me,  or  this 
gentle  and  beautiful  lady,  the  Countess  ?  " 

"  Nothing  whatever,  nothing  at  all,"  answered  the  other 
slowly ;  "  only  this  morning  or  yesterday,  as  you  drove  through 
the  crowd  in  the  great  drive  as  usual,  I  heard  a  remark  as 
usual,  and  that  remark — 

"  And  that  remark Murietta  was  again  on  his  feet. 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down,"  half  whispered,  half  hissed  Carlton 
as  he  tried  to  laugh,  and  as  he  reached  up  his  hand  and  laid 
it  on  the  arm  of  Murietta,  and  tried  to  gently  drag  him  again 
back  to  his  seat ;  "  will  you  not  sit  down  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  am  wild  ;  I  am  sick  and  disgusted.  I  want  the 
air.  I  can't  breathe  here ;  it  suffocates  me.  I  want  to  go 
out.  I  want  to  go  outside  the  walls  of  Rome.  There  is  no 
room  here  ;  it  is  too  close  !  " 

"  Come,  come ;  here  is  another  table." 

"  Enough,  enough  !  "  said  the  artist,  and  tried  to  shake 
him  off.  "I  am  going  out.  Good  night." 

"  But  the  story,"  said  Carlton. 

"  But  what?  "  asked  Murietta,  turning  around  and  drawing 
his  cloak  closer  about  him. 

"  The  story,  or  rather  the  sequel  after  the  fairy  tale  of  the 
hatter  and  the  March  hare." 

"Yes;  that  remark — what  was  it?  You  would  provoke 
the  devil,"  said  he,  again  tapping  a  tattoo  on  the  stones  as  he 
stood  there,  with  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes  and  his  cloak 
drawn  close  about  him. 

"  Sit  down,  and  I  will  tell  you  what  it  was,  lest  you  think 
it  something  either  very  wicked  or  very  witty,  but  I  assure 
you  that  it  was  neither." 


3io 


The   One  Fair  Woman. 


"  Well  I  am  here,"  said  the  artist  taking  his  seat. 

"  Really,"  laughed  Carlton,  quietly,  "  it  is  nothing  worth 
repeating ;  a  man  in  the  crowd  simply  said,  as  you  and  the 
Countess  passed  by,  '  There  goes  the  hatter  and  the  March 
hare.' " 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 


ON    THE    APPIAN    WAY. 

T  midday  Murietta  stood  half 
leaning  against  a  marble  pillar 
by  the  pool  and  fountain  of 
Trevi.  The  sun  was  pitching 
down  into  the  cool  clear  basin  of 
water,  over  the  top  of  the  shops 
to  the  south  ;  and  women,  pretty 
brown  Roman  peasant  women,  in 
short  petticoats  of  gay  colors, 
were  coming  and  going  with  their  pitchers ;  and 
now  and  then  one  would  lift  up  her  great  dark 
eyes  to  the  dreamer  as  she  passed,  and  wonder 
who  his  love  might  be,  and  why  she  kept  him 
waiting  and  looking  all  the  time  so  forlorn  and 
lone.  He  had  resolved  to  see  the  Countess  no 
more,  after  a  long  hard  battle  in  his  heart.  He 
was  trying  in  vain  to  persuade  himself  that  he 
had  made  this  resolution,  and  kept  it,  solely  for  her  own 
good. 

Had  he  ever,  at  any  time,  had  any  affection  for  the  lady 
in  pink,  he  would  have  had  a  fearful  account  to  settle  with 
himself,  as  he  stood  there  listening  to  the  soft  call  of  the 
waters  so  like  a  cascade  of  the  mountains. 

But  nothing  of  the  kind  had  ever  been,  and  he  was  not, 


312  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

therefore,  much  at  war  with  himself ;  but  was  certainly  very 
ill  content,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  and  was  now  keeping  a  resolve 
in  his  heart  to  see  the  pink  Countess  no  more. 

And  this,  not  because  the  world  advised  it,  but  because  he 
felt  that  he  was  becoming  disloyal  to  his  ideal  love.  True, 
he  had  overthrown  his  ideal  love.  He  had  driven  a  dagger 
through  her  image.  He  had  stood  up  and  sworn  to  himself 
to  forget  her,  and  to  put  her  utterly  away  from  his  heart. 
Yea,  the  man  had  done  all  this,  and  done  it  but  a  little  time 
before.  Therefore,  like  a  true  lover,  of  that  type  and  tem 
perament,  he  now  stood  damning  himself  before  himself,  and 
holding  her  dearer  in  his  heart  than  ever. 

Carriages  were  coming  and  going  past,  and  people  on  foot 
were  wedged  in  and  making  their  way  along  among  the 
wheels  as  only  Italians  can. 

"  Bet  your  life  it's  he  !  " 

Murietta,  as  one  just  awakened  from  a  dream,  looked  up. 

"  There  !  there  !  what  did  I  tell  you.     Murietta  !  " 

The  carriages  stopped,  and  the  artist,  hearing  his  name 
called  by  the  loud,  clear- voiced  Californian  girl,  turned  and 
made  his  way  through  the  crowd. 

The  Countess  put  out  her  little  hand  in  a  little  pearl- 
colored  glove,  and  smiling,  said  in  a  low,  sweet  voice, — 

"  I  have  kept  the  Appian  Way  as  something  sacred,  as  a 
sort  of  dessert  to  be  taken  when  all  else  palls,  you  see." 

"  But,  my  dear  lady,  what  are  you  speaking  of  ?  " 

"  Why,  do  you  not  understand  ?  "  The  little  hand  fluttered 
about  over  the  pink  and  rose  robes  of  the  lady,  as  if  it  had 
been  a  sort  of  butterfly  in  a  garden  of  flowers. 

"  We  are  on  the  way  for  a  drive — my  last  drive  in  or 
around  Rome.  We  are  going  over  the  Via  Appia." 

"  A  pleasant  drive  and  a  safe  return !  "  said  the  artist, 
lifting  his  hat,  and  stepping  back  to  say  good-bye. 

"  No,  no,  no  !  Come  !  "  cried  the  Countess,  reaching  her 
hand.  "  We  will  not  go  without  you  !  " 


On  the  Appian    Way.  313 

"  Come  along,  stupid.  Hop  in !  There  !  And  little 
Mollie  rose  up,  and  left  the  side  of  the  Countess,  and  sat  op 
posite. 

The  street  was  getting  blocked,  and  a  little  Roman,  in  a 
beautiful  uniform  overshadowed  by  an  enormous  plume  of 
red  cocks'  feathers,  came  up  smiling  and  bowing,  and  beckon 
ing  for  the  carriage  to  move  on. 

"  Come  !  "  cried  Mollie,  "  you  will  have  us  all  arrested  ! " 

"  Well,  sit  back  by  the  Countess,  and  I  am  with  you." 

The  artist  climbed  into  the  carriage  just  in  time  to  escape 
a  speech  from  the  policeman,  and  the  party  moved  slowly  on 
through  the  jammed  and  crowded  streets  above  the  buried 
city,  and  around  the  partly  excavated  Forum  of  Trajan. 

"And  Mollie  the  Mischievous  is  well  ?"  said  the  artist, 
settling  down  in  his  seat,  and  looking  at  the  picture  of  health 
before  him. 

"  Well,  and  happy,  too,  as  an  apple  on  a  tree  !  "  and  the 
little  California  lady,  as  if  just  reminded  of  it,  put  her  hand 
in  her  pocket,  laughed  while  doing  so,  and  then,  drawing  it 
forth,  held  it  out  full  of  nuts  and  raisins  and  candies. 

"  No,  thank  you." 

Then  she  wanted  to  divide  with  the  Coimtess,  who  had 
settled  back  as  if  hiding  away  out  of  sight  behind  the  bounc 
ing,  warm-hearted  girl,  and  as  if  half  hurt  that  she  was  not 
all  the  time  the  centre  and  the  one  person  present. 

"  After  all,"  said  Murietta  to  himself,  as  he  noticed  this, 
"  she  is  only  a  woman  ;  and  what  a  perfect  woman,  too  !  " 

"  Then  you  were  going  without  me  ?  "  The  artist  looked 
at  the  Countess,  and  spoke  as  if  he  meant  to  reproach  her. 

"  On  the  contrary  ;  I  should  not  have  gone  without  you  at 
all." 

"  But  you  did  not  know  I  was  here  ?  " 

"  I  knew  you  would  be  found  on  a  morning  like  this,  and 
after  a  day  like  yesterday,  either  at  the  Fountain  of  Trevi 
listening  to  the  water,  or  in  the  garden  of  the  Palatine  look- 
14 


314  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

ing  at  the  flowers.  Had  I  not  found  you  here,  I  should  have 
driven  directly  to  the  gardens." 

The  artist  sat  silent,  and  was  a  bit  embarrassed. 

"  Something  more  than  a  woman  after  all  !  "  he  said  to  him 
self.  "  For,  true  as  I  live,  I  was  just  thinking  of  turning  my 
steps  to  the  Palatine." 

"  You  are  moody  and  dissatisfied."  The  little  butterfly- 
hand,  in  the  pearl  colored  glove,  again  fluttered  about  over 
the  flowers  of  rose  and  pink,  and  the  great  brown  eyes  looked 
at  the  man  with  their  old  wonder. 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  answered — yet  he  answered  with  a  sigh. 
"  Not  at  all.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  glad  to  be  with  you 
this  morning — glad  to  make  this  wonderful  drive  with  you, 
whatever  it  may  be.  But  what  is  the  special  attraction  ?  " 

"  We  shall  see  !  In  the  first  place,  listen."  The  pearl- 
colored  butterfly  fluttered  about,  and  then  rested  down  among 
the  roses  and  pinks,  and  brought  out  a  little  Bible,  "  Listen 
to  this,"  and  the  Countess  read  : 

"  And  from  thence,  when  the  brethren  heard  of  us,  they 
came  to  meet  us  as  far  as  Appii  forum,  and  The  three  taverns  : 
whom  when  Paul  saw,  he  thanked  God,  and  took  courage." — 
Acts,  xxviii.  15. 

Then  closing  the  book,  and  looking  at  the  artist,  while  all 
the  time  Mollie  sat  munching  her  nuts  and  raisins  and  candies, 
she  said, — 

"  We  are  going  out  over  that  road  towards  the  Three  Tav 
erns,  and  over  the  same  stones  that  were  pressed  by  the  feet 
of  Saint  Paul  and  his  followers." 

"  Good,"  said  Murietta.  You  are  more  than  kind.  It  is 
the  one  thing  certainly  in  the  world  to  do,  a  sort  of  pilgrim- 
age." 

Then  he  fell  to  wondering  again  what  manner  of  woman 
this  Countess  was,  and  found  himself  more  puzzled  than  ever. 

After  a  little  time  she  began, — 

"  When   a  man  from  the   far,   far  West,  from  the  iinder 


On  the  Appian    Way.  315 

world,  as  it  were,  makes  his  way  around  the  globe,  and 
comes  first  upon  the  footprints  of  the  Apostles,  he  is  thrilled 
by  a  sort  of  awe  that  nothing  else  can  produce.  He  feels 
somehow  that  he  has  come  upon  the  confines  of  another 
world — -a  better  world,  and  a  fairer  one — and  he,  for  the  day 
at  least,  is  a  better  man  for  the  fact." 

Murietta  leaned  forward  and  listened.  His  heart  was 
again  vibrating  between  two  idols.  Here  was  a  sincerity, 
a  sort  of  religious  devotion  that  he  had  never  seen  in  this 
woman  before.  He  was  certain  he  had  done  her  wrong.  The 
lady  lifted  her  little  pearl-colored  hand,  as  if  she  would  put 
Rome  and  the  ruins  behind  her. 

"  You  get  tired  of  Rome  in  a  month  or  two,  in  spite  ot 
yourself,"  she  said.  "  Ruins  and  galleries,  towers  and 
churches — (three  hundred  and  sixty-five  churches  !  and  if 
there  had  been  more  days  in  the  year  there  would  have  been 
more  churches  in  Rome  !) — and  you  want  to  get  outside  the 
great  brick  walls  somewhere  and  sit  down  and  rest.  You  are 
a  sort  of  anaconda,  that  has  at  last  swallowed  an  ox,  and  you 
want  to  steal  away  and  lie  down  and  digest  it." 

Just  then  a  boy  stood  up  on  a  box  by  the  side  of  the  driver 
of  the  carriage  in  advance,  and  shouted  aloud,  "  I  say,  Moll !  " 

"  Oh  Johnny  !  do  sit  down,  or  you  will  break  your  neck  !  " 
said  Mollie,  answeiing  back. 

"  And  who  is  Johnny  ?  "  queried  the  artist. 

"  Oh  that's  my  big  little  brother,  just  down  from  school 
at  Florence,  and  he  is  the  worst ! — bet  your  life  ! — he  is  the 
worst  that  ever  was  !  Sit  down  there,  Johnny,  or  you'll  drive 
mother  into  the  tan-ta-rarns  !  " 

The  mother  and  the  good  Genei'al  also  kept  reaching  out  to 
the  rosy,  mischievous  boy  just  from  school,  who  would  persist 
in  riding  on  the  box  with  the  man  with  the  fire-crackers  ;  and 
Johnny,  for  their  pains,  kept  them  in  a  constant  state  of  ter 
ror  by  standing  up  on  the  box  and  turning  around  and  shout 
ing  back  to  sister  "  Moll." 


316  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  Oh  Johnny  !  Johnny  !  will  you  never  sit  down  till  you 
break  your  neck  ?  "  cried  Mollie. 

"  Never,  Mollie,  never  !  " 

"  Then  break  it  and  be  done  with  it !  "  And  the  pouting 
Mollie  once  more  filled  her  pretty  mouth  with  goodies. 

But  Johnny  still  stood  there  on  the  seat,  still  looked  back 
and  called  across  his  shoulder. 

Mercy  !  the  carriage  wheel  has  bximped  against  a  bit  of 
tombstone,  and  Johnny  is  pitched  forward  on  the  horses,  and 
lands  among  them  aiid-under  their  heels. 

Mollie  now  had  a  good  opportunity  to  observe,  and  did 
observe  with  a  great  deal  of  satisfaction,  that  the  horses  of 
degenerate  Rome,  under  very  aggravating  circumstances, 
kick  very  much  like  the  horses  of  the  gi'eat  American  repub 
lic. 

Johnny  is  fished  out,  however,  at  last ;  and  like  very  many 
other  bad  boys,  has  escaped  almost  scot-free.  This  boy  and 
other  similar  boys  convince  one  of  the  absolute  necessity  of 
a  first-class  and  well-regulated  hell. 

The  trouble  is,  these  bad  boys  are  nearly  always  as  sharp 
as  briars  and  as  quick  as  traps.  If  they  would  only  consent 
to  be  fools  !  You  can  compromise  with  a  good-natured  idiot, 
and  get  him  to  capitulate  on  very  reasonable  terms;  but  this 
boy  among  the  tombs  of  the  Via  Appii  was  quite  another 
thing. 

As  soon  as  the  mother,  who  had  been  shrieking,  wild  with 
terror,  discovered  that  he  was  not  hurt,  she  said  she  wished 
he  had  broken  his  neck — a  wish  that  was  joined  in  by  at 
least  one  of  the  party  with  more  heartiness  than  she  would 
have  desired. 

The  party  drew  up  for  a  moment  beside  the  excavations  of 
the  Roman  Forum,  and  getting  down  from  their  carriages, 
stood  together  and  leaned  over  the  rails  and  looked  down 
at  the  little  indolent  army  of  workers  twenty-five  feet  below 
them. 


On  the  Appian    Way.  317 

"  There,"  said  Miss  Mollie,  pointing  to  a  heap  of  stones 
that  stood  on  the  clear  pavement  away  down  there,  that  had 
just  been  laid  bare,  "  there  is  the  spot,  almost  underneath  us, 
where  Caesar's  body  was  burned,  and  Antony  and  Brutus 
spoke  their  respective  pieces." 

The  General  stood  and  looked  earnestly  at  the  work  of  ex 
cavation,  and  then  said, — 

"  It  looks  for  all  the  world  like  a  California  mining  claim  !  " 

"  I  think  the  owners  are  doing  just  about  enough  work  to 
hold  the  claim."  said  Mollie. 

"Nothing,"  said  the  General  thoughtfully,  "can  more 
closely  resemble  a  placer  mine  than  this  ugly  excavation. 
There  lies  the  bed-rock,  the  old  Roman  pavement,  swept 
clean  and  creviced  out ;  there  are  the  picks  and  the  wheel 
barrows,  and  there  the  granite  boulders  and  the  quartz,  only 
the  quartz  happens  to  be  marble,  and  the  granite  boulders  to 
be  broken  columns." 

Mrs.  Wopsus  wiped  her  eyes,  as  if  overcome  with  some 
sort  of  emotion  ;  and  then  she  reached  out  her  hand  and  took 
Johnny  by  the  coat  collar  at  the  back  of  the  neck,  and  held 
on  to  him  till  they  again  moved  on,  lest  he  should  tumble 
over  the  bank  and  break  his  precocious  neck. 

People  were  standing  in  hundreds  looking  down  idly  over 
the  rails  at  the  idle  workmen.  Here  and  there  stood  groups 
of  tourists,  with  red  guide-books  in  their  hands,  that  looked 
like  lamps  hung  up  by  the  authorities  to  give  notice  of  re 
pairs. 

Never  did  a  live  American  see  such  indolent  men  as  these 
Italians  at  their  work.  They  move  as  if  half  asleep.  Their 
tools  are  awkward,  and  always  dull ;  their  wheelbarrows 
have  an  old  primitive  wooden  wheel,  and  hold  about  a 
saucepanful  of  earth.  They  use  no  running  planks,  but  push 
their  load  slowly  up  on  the  uneven  ground. 

"  A  Californian,"  said  the  General,  "  could  carry  twice  the 
load  in  his  hat." 


318  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

"  A.y,  that  he  could,"  cried  Johnny ;  "  particularly  if  it 
was  apples  from  some  forbidden  garden." 

The  Countess  was  thoughtful.  Somehow  this  levity  did  not 
suit  her.  Then  they  climbed  into  their  carriages,  and  went 
on  to  the  gates  of  the  Palatine  Hill,  only  a  pistol-shot  distant. 

They  passed  through  in  the  presence  of  the  two  or  three 
Romans  in  uniform  to  be  found  at  every  gate  in  Italy,  and 
then  climbed  up,  up,  up  a  thousand  steps,  and  stood  at  last 
on  the  level  where  Romulus  had  set  his  capitol. 

The  Countess  kept  aloof  from  the  party.  She  patted  the 
little  she-wolf  on  the  head,  gave  her  some  nuts,  and  asked  her 
about  Romulus  and  Remus.  The  wolf  only  drooped  her 
bushy  tail,  scratched  in  the  crack  of  the  floor  for  a  nut  which 
she  had  dropped,  and  pretended  not  to  hear. 

The  Countess  turned  to  Murietta,  and  to  him  alone  all  the 
day,  and  told  him  every  thing  that  might  be  of  interest,  as  if 
to  keep  the  way  open  between  their  hearts.  He,  on  the  other 
hand,  would  have  b\iilt  a  wall  colossal  and  high  between  them. 

Further  along  the  hill,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the  beaiiti- 
ful  garden  of  flowers,  they  came  upon  the  excavations  where 
the  frescos  of  twenty  centuries  ago  are  laid  bare.  But  the 
Countess  would  not  descend  from  the  roses  and  sunshine. 

Mollie  ranged  herself  beside  the  others  at  the  edge  of  the 
garden ;  aud,  standing  on  the  bank,  called  attention  to  the 
little  negro  lad  that  had  just  been  exhumed. 

"  Bet  your  life,  pa,  he's  a  New  York  negro  !  My  !  just 
look  at  him,  with  his  head  held  sideways  as  he  looks  up  at 
you !  I  can  almost  hear  him  say,  '  Black'er  boots,  sah  ? 
black'er  boots  ?  " 

"  What  is  most  remarkable  about  this  statue,"  said  the 
General,  "  is  that  its  nose  is  perfectly  intact !  It  is  the  only 
very  old  face  in  Rome  that  has  not  a  broken  nose.  Of  course 
this  is  because  it  has  such  a  broad  foundation,  and  is  set  so 
closely  to  the  face  ;  but  it  is  none  the  less  noticeable." 

"  But  oh  !   to  think,"  said  Mollie,  ' '  what  this  curly-headed, 


On  the  Appian   Way.  319 

good  natured  little  fellow  has  had  to  endure  for  two  thousand 
years.  Two  thousand  years  to  endure  the  smells  of  Rome  ! 

'  Monk  and  Mussulman,  Pagan  and  Jew,' 

all  have  filed  past  our  woolly-headed  little  friend,  have  left 
their  filth,  and  gone  away." 

Then  Mrs.  Wopsus,  holding  her  handkerchief  to  her  nose 
with  one  hand,  and  holding  Johnny  by  the  collar  with  the 
othei',  slowly  spoke  and  said, 

"  No  wonder  that  Mr.  Caesar  and  Citizen  Brutus  and  Gen 
eral  Antony,  and  all  the  rest,  have  had  their  noses  broken  to 
the  very  base  !  " 

"  We  must  push  on,"  said  the  Countess,  after  a  moment. 
"  Will  you  allow  me  ?  "  She  took  the  artist's  arm,  and  they 
returned  together  through  the  garden  of  roses  to  the  gate. 

"  You  are  not  strong  ?  "  he  said,  as  he  handed  her  into  the 
carriage. 

The  lady's  face  was  pink  and  rose  as  her  dress,  for  the 
blood  mounted  to  her  cheeks  as  she  said, 

"  I  fear  I  lean  heavily  on  your  arm." 

"  No,  110,  not  at  all !  "  not  that,  only — 

"  Never  mind  ! ''  cried  Mollie.  "  Take  a  pea-nut  !  "  And 
she  laughed  and  reached  her  full  hand  to  the  artist  as  the 
carriages  whirled  away  from  the  crowd  of  beggars  that  was 
gathering  around. 

They  drove  under  the  Triumphal  Arch  of  Titus.  On  the 
marble  pillars  of  the  gate,  Murietta  marked  the  figures  of 
great  strong  men  bearing  the  holy  candlesticks  and  other -sa 
cred  vessels  of  the  Tabernacle  which  were  brought  to  Rome 
by  the  son  of  Vespasian  when  he  overthrew  Jerusalem. 

"Tradition,"  began  the  Countess,  talking  entirely  to  Muri 
etta,  "  says  they  were  thrown  into  the  Tiber,  when  the  Van 
dals  came  down  and  plundered  Rome.  There  is  strong  talk 
of  turning  the  course  of  the  river  to  search  for  this  and  other 
treasure  supposed  to  be  hidden  there." 


320  •  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

The  carriages  rumbled  on  down  a  sloping  hill,  over  a 
very  rough  and  broken  section  of  old  Roman  pavement,  that 
has  lain  there  unrepaired  for  perhaps  a  thousand  years. 

Suddenly  the  Countess  reached  a  pink  and  pearl  hand  to  the 
left,  and  lifted  her  beautiful  face,  all  aglow  with  enthusiasm, 
as  he  said,  pointing, 

"  Now  we  come  to  the  shadows  of  the  Coliseum  !  The  gray 
Coliseum,  lifting  its  stony  circles  against  the  eternal  rounds 
of  Time  !  " 

"  But  Time,"  cried  Mollie,  "  has  set  his  teeth  in  it !  " 

"  How  old  !  "  said  Murietta. 

"  No,"  said  the  Countess,  "it  does  not  look  old  !  It  is  not 
old  !  It  has  outlived  the  Cresars,  the  Charlemagnes,  and  will 
probably  outlive  the  Kaisers  of  Germany.  But  the  Coliseum 
does  not  look  old  !  It  has  stood  as  a  stone  quarry  for  a  whole 
city,  for  centuries,  and  all  the  fine  palaces  of  Rome  have  been 
built  from  it,  and  yet  it  does  not  seem  to  have  suffered  any 
material  damage  !  " 

"  Damage  !  "  rejoined  Mollie,  munching  away  at  her  nuts, 
"  no,  not  a  bit  !  It  still  looks  as  though  it  might  furnish 
material  for  two  or  three  Chicagos,  and  yet  hold  its  place  as 
the  biggest  thing  out  of  doors  !  " 

The  carriages  stopped  for  a  time,  and  sitting  there  togeth 
er,  they  contemplated  the  colossal  structure. 

"  Look  up  there  !  Holy  Spoons  !  What  can  that  man  be 
doing  up  there  with  a  broom  ?  "  cried  little  Johnny,  as  he 
pointed  to  the  topmost  ruin  of  the  Coliseum.  The  party 
looked  as  the  boy  pointed  with  his  hand ;  and  lo !  there 
stood  an  Italian  leaning  on  his  broom  in  the  most  graceful 
pose,  as  if  he  was  standing  on  a  cross  street  calmly  wait 
ing  the  approach  of  some  good-natured  countryman  whom 
his  quick  eye  had  selected  from  the  crowd  as  a  probable  con 
tributor. 

Then  the  man  with  the  broom  swept  right  and  left,  walked 
on  along  his  lofty  precipice,  poised  his  broom  in  the  air  on 


On.  the  Appian  Way.  321 

his  forefinger,  and   danced  as  he  did  so,  and  sang  a  snatch  of 
an  opera. 

"  And  look  there  !  "  cried  Johnny  again,  as  they  drove  still 
nearer  to  the  Coliseum.  "  Look  up  and  down  the  broken  wall 
and  on  the  borders  there.  Do  you  see  those  people  clinging 
here  and  there,  and  pulling  little  weeds  and  grasses  from  out 
the  crevices  of  the  rocks  !  " 

Sure  enough,  there  they  hung  and  clung,  some  by  ropes,  and 
some  by  help  of  the  broken  and  decayed  parts  of  the  wall  that 
gave  them  a  foothold,  while  they  jerked  at  the  grass  and  weeds 
as  if  they  had  been  of  a  species  of  two-legged  goat. 

"  And  what  does  it  all  mean  ?  "  asked  Mollie. 

"It  means,"  answered  the  General,  "that  the  government 
of  Italy  is  spending  the  genius  of  her  gifted  sons,  and  the 
revenues  of  her  coffers,  in  a  glorious  attempt  to  accomplish 
the  work  of  renovation. " 

Mollie  looked  puzzled. 

"  Ah,  you  are  surprised,"  continued  the  General.  <c  But  let 
me  give  you  the  reasons  of  these  Italians,  and  recount  some 
of  their  labors  in  that  line." 

"  You  see,  the  Coliseum  had  only  stood  two  thousand 
years  when  this  new  order  of  things  was  established  in  Italy. 
It  is  true  it  was  not  at  all  affected  by  Time  in  this  little  period 
of  twenty  centuries,  for  those  blocks  of  tufa  of  which  it  is 
built  are  about  as  tough  and  imperishable  as  the  lead  that 
held  the  blocks  together.  But  then  these  gentle-  Italians 
began  to  fear  that  it  would  be  affected  if  they  left  it  standing 
out  here  in  its  coat  of  grass  and  its  glorious  company  of  old 
fig-trees  and  splendid  folds  of  ivy  ;  and  so  they  cut  all  that 
away,  and  made  the  Coliseum  seem  the  newest  thing  in  Rome  !" 

"  And  what  are  they  sweeping  it  down  for  ? "  queried 
Mollie,  twisting  her  head  and  looking  back  at  the  actor  on 
the  top  of  the  ruin  with  his  broom. 

"  Oh,  they  intend  to  paint  it  perhaps  !  "      "  Paint  it — paint 
it  in  the  three  colors  of  Italy  !  " 
14* 


322  The  One  Fair    Woman. 

"  Certainly  paint  it,  whitewash  it,  you  know,  and  make  it 
look  gay  and  lively  ! "  chimed  in  Johnny. 

"  Yes,  and  then  put  green  window-blinds  in  its  windows  !  " 
said  Mollie,  leaning  over,  and  looking  into  the  old  General's 
face,  "  and  oh  !  won't  that  be  a  jolly  ruin  then  !  bet  your 
life  !  "  laughed  the  little  maiden  from  California. 

"  To  be  serious,  began  the  General  again,"  "  to  be  serious 
about  a  really  serious  matter,  these  men  are  mad  about  their 
ruins.  They  see  the  whole  world  come  here  to  look  iipon 
these  relics  of  old  Rome ;  and  these  men,  now  lacking  even 
the  little  sense  shown  by  the  pope  who  thought  to  make  a 
woollen  mill  of  the  Coliseum,  have,  in  these  few  years,  almost 
destroyed  what  it  took  nearly  two  thousand  years  to  attain." 

"  But  it  had  not  been  touched  for  nearly  a  century ;  not 
for  nearly  a  century  has  a  hand  been  laid  on  a  stone  of  it,  till 
these  new  Vandals  came  and  cut  down  the  trees  and  tore 
away  the  ivy." 

"  You  see  these  popes  counted  it  as  a  holy  spot.  They  set 
up  a  cross  there,  and  the  stones  became  sacred.  And  that 
was  the  only  one  of  their  hundreds  of  shrines  and  churches 
that  I  would  have  bent  before  within  the  walls  of  Rome ! 
for  it  was,  indeed,  a  temple  that  Nature  had  reclaimed  from 
man.  It  was  so  magnificent,  and  so  imposing,  that  she  took 
it  as  if  it  had  been  her  own  work  and  made  a  garden  of  it, 
and  planted  flowers  there,  found  nowhere  else  on  earth." 

"  When  the  place  was  undisturbed,  the  botanists  came 
here,  and  on  the  walls,  and  about  the  floors  among  the  fallen 
columns,  they  found  hundreds  of  plants  and  flowers  that  were 
utterly  new  to  the  world.  Look  at  it  now  !  " 

"  The  floor  is  like  a  parade  ground,"  said  Murietta. 

"  The  walls  are  bare  as  if  built  yesterday." 

"  There  is  a  man  employed  like  a  parlour-maid  dusting  it 
down  with  a  broom,  as  if  it  was  a  sort  of  child's  toy,  or  at 
most  a  parlor  wall." 

The  party    drove  on.     The    irrepressible  Johnny    bawled 


On  the  Appian  Way.  323 

back  from  his  father's  carriage  that  he  would  like  to  see  old 
Joshua  marched  around  that,  and  toot  his  horn,  and  see  what 
would  come  of  it ;  and  then  his  mother  reached  and  took  him 
by  the  collar. 

They  now  passed  under  the  great  Triumphal  Arch  of  Con- 
stantine,  and  then  had  a  long  leafy  ride  through  a  lane  of 
elms. 

Peasants  were  spinning  ropes  of  flax  to  the  right ;  and  all 
along  they  came  and  went  to  and  from  the  city  with  great 
loads  on  their  heads,  and  leading  their  little  children  by  the 
hand. 

Then  again  the  party  was  silent,  for  Mollie  was  absorbed 
in  her  nuts  and  candies,  and  Murietta  was  moody,  and  his 
mind  was  drifting  far  away. 

They  passed  through  the  great  wall  of  Rome,  and  were  in 
the  wide  open  Campagna,  a  place  that  looks  more  like  a  bit 
of  the  great  American  plains  than  anything  to  be  seen  in 
Europe. 

Barefooted  peasant  girls,  and  beautiful,  too,  as  red  May 
roses,  were  going  into  town  in  Indian  file,  with  bundles  of 
wood  and  cane  on  their  heads.  A  shoemaker  sat  in  his  cot 
tage  door  as  they  passed,  with  half-a-dozen  children  at  his 
knees,  and  he  stopped  work  to  look  at  Johnny,  who  had  set 
his  thumb  against  his  nose,  and  was  wriggling  his  fingers  in 
the  air  in  the  direction  of  his  mother.  * 

"I  never  saw  so  many  shoemakers  in  my  life  as  there  are 
in  Rome,"  said  Murietta  at  last.  "  At  the  door  of  almost 
every  house  you  enter,  there  sits  a  little,  dried  up,  wrinkled 
old  shoemaker." 

The  great  soft  eyes  of  the  Countess  twinkled  just  the  least 
bit  mischievously  here,  as  she  looked  at  Murietta,  and  said, — 

"  Is  it  not  possible  now,  after  all,  that  this  is  why  Rome 
is  called  the  '  City  of  the  Soul  ?  '  " 

He  only  smiled  in  reply,  and  there  was  again  a  long  silence 
as  the  carriages  rattled  on  over  the  rough  stones. 


324  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

The  Appian  Way  is  dreadfully  disappointing.  It  is  not 
more  than  twenty  or  twenty-five  feet  wide,  and  there  is  not  a 
shady  tree  to  be  seen  along  the  way. 

On  either  hand  lift  great  walls  that  hide  the  gardens  and 
peasants  at  their  labor  ;  and,  but  for  the  interesting  relics 
which  compose  these  walls  in  part,  you  would  find  but  little 
to  amuse  you. 

These  walls,  in  many  places,  have  been  repaired,  or  were 
originally  built  of  broken  marble,  plundered  from  Heaven 
knows  what  ruined  city  or  palace ;  for  these  llomans  seem  to 
have  had  no  respect  whatever'  for  antiquity.  The  great  St. 
Peter's  Church,  for  example,  is  built  for  the  most  part  out  of 
stones  taken  from  their  most  picturesque  ruins. 

You  will  notice  a  broken  arm  reaching  helplessly  out  of 
this  wall  on  the  Appian  Way  in  one  place  as  you  pass  ;  and 
in  another  you  will  see  a  pretty  cluster  of  flowers.  A  part 
of  a  giant  serpent  is  also  to  be  seen  along  with  a  hundred 
other  like  fragments  of  art,  where  storms  and  time  have  laid 
bare  the  rough  masonry  of  the  wall. 

Latterly,  however,  these  gentle  Romans  have  come  to  pre 
serve  all  these  things,  and  stick  them  up  in  the  stucco  walls 
of  the  houses  all  along  the  roads.  This,  of  course,  spoils  the 
etfect,  and  you  take  less  interest  in  the  broken  marbles  when 
you  find  they  are  posted  up  for  exhibition. 

Capuchin,  monks,  in  brown  gowns  and  sandals,  go  by, 
indolent-looking  and  filthy,  though  they  are  the  best  of 
their  kind,  and  very  attentive  to  the  sick  in  times  of  the 
plague. 

Then  they  met  a  family  of  peasants  going  into  town.  They 
all  had  loads  on  their  heads,  and  chatted,  and  sang,  and 
seemed  very  happy.  Then  came  another  party  of  Capuchin 
monks,  and  looking  at  them,  Mollie  observed, — 

"  L  have*  never  yet  seen  a  monk  carry  anything  heavier 
than  his  little  basket,  where  he  puts  whatever  may  be  given 
him  in  charity." 


On  the  Appian  Way.  325 

"And  that,"  answered  the  Countess,  "is  just  one  basket 
more  than  I  have  seen  any  clergyman  carry." 

There  was  another  silence,  as  they  still  rumbled  on  over  the 
stones  of  the  Via  Appii. 

Virgins  and  holy  families  look  down  from  niches  in  the 
walls,  and  here  and  there  is  a  Madonna  with  a  burning  lamp. 
One  or  two  mossy  urns  only  now  are  noticeable  of  all  the 
thousands  that  sat  of  old  on  either  side  of  the  way. 

Johnny  climbed  the  wall  as  they  stopped  for  a  moment  for 
a  carriage  full  of  English  people  to  get  by ;  and,  lifting  the 
lid  of  an  urn,  bawled  out  to  his  mother  to  know  if  she  would 
have  a  "  pickle  !  " 

"  Here  in  this  little  church  to  the  left  are  the  two  foot 
prints  of  our  Saviour  in  the  stone,"  said  the  Countess,  as  they 
drove  up,  and  found  two  monks  at  the  door  stringing  beads. 
Then,  as  they  looked  in,  the  General  told  the  party  this  story 
of  the  footprints. 

St.  Peter  had  been  condemned  in  Rome  to  be  crucified  ; 
but  his  heart  had  failed  him,  and,  having  met  with  an  oppor 
tunity  to  escape,  he  was  now  making  his  way  at  night  along 
the  Appian  Way  toward  the  sea.  But  suddenly  here,  on  the 
site  of  this  church,  which  is  built  over  the  old  road,  so  that 
the  new  road  has  to  pass  around,  he  came  face  to  face  with 
his  Master. 

Peter  said,  "  Master,  whither  goest  thou  ?  " 

"  I  go  to  Rome  to  be  crucified." 

At  this  Peter  returned  to  Rome,  and  died  at  the  hands  of 
the  Romans  on  the  site  of  St.  Peter's  church. 

The  very  paving  stones  of  the  old  road  are  still  here,  and 
form  the  floor  of  the  church.  But  the  good  priest  told  them 
that  this  was  only  a  copy  of  the  stone  in  which  the  feet  of  the 
Saviour  pressed  as  he  spoke  to  Peter. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 


IN   THE    CATACOMBS. 

NCE  more  on  the  road,  the 
party  in  a  little  time  pulled 
up  at  another  gate,  with  the 
usual  man  in  keeping,  who 
expects,  and  looks  daggers 
indeed  out  of  his  black  Ita 
lian  eyes,  if  he  does  not  get 
the  usual  fee. 

The  Countess  sat  in  her 
carriage,  and  would  not  enter 
the  six  hundred  miles  of  Christian 
Catacombs.  But  Marietta  went  on 
with  the  party.  Having  voted  to 
take  a  mile  or  two  of  this  singular 
burying-ground  and  resting-place  of 
martyrs,  they  passed  through  a  gate  on  foot,  they  climbed  a 
little  eminence,  and  there,  among  the  grape  vines  and  garden 
plants,  with  peasants  all  around  them  at  work,  they  went 
down,  down,  down  narrow  stairs,  led  by  a  guide,  who  at 
last  stopped  at  the  door  of  a  dark  cavern,  and  furnished 
them  each  with  a  coil  of  lighted  taper. 

He  led  them  along  a  level,  narrow  passage,  with  its  sides 
all  cut  into  niches,  not  much  unlike  the  berths  of  a  ship,  and 
cut  in  tiers  on  either  hand,  as  high  as  you  can  reach. 


In  the   Catacombs.  327 

Here  the  bodies  had  been  placed,  sometimes  a  whole  family, 
side  by  side,  in  the  red  sandstone.  After  interment,  the 
mouth  of  the  little  shelf  had  been  closed  with  a  marble  slab, 
bearing  the  name  and  date,  and  the  whole  tightly  sealed  with 
cement.  Many  of  these  had  fallen  away  and  had  disappeared. 
Perhaps  they  now  are  used  to  build  the  wall  around  the  gar 
den  of  some  modern  Cincinnatus. 

Some  of  these  little  tombs  are  still  sealed  as  they  had  been 
at  first ;  and  the  inscriptions  on  the  polished  marble  a,re  the 
same  as  if  made  yesterday.  Often  you  see  the  dove  bearing 
the  olive-branch,  and  now  and  then  a  pea-fowl,  or  some  other 
bird  familiar  to  the  Romans.  Where  the  marble  slab  is  gone, 
there  lie  the  bones  crumbling  to  ashes  on  the  stone — only  a 
handful  of  dust,  nothing  more. 

The  enterprising  Johnny  hid  the  brown  and  crumbling  jaw 
bone  of  a  possible  Christian  martyr  under  his  waistcoat,  and 
then  loudly  declared  to  the  unsuspecting  guide  that  he  would 
assist  him  in  detecting  any  one  who  attempted  to  carry  off 
any  of  the  sacred  relics,  even  though  the  guilty  party  should 
be  his  own  mother. 

To  the  infinite  satisfaction  of  Murietta,  as  he  was  talking 
back  over  his  shoulder  to  the  guide  from  a  side-passage,  this 
promising  youth  fell  over  a  broken  stone  coffin  and  nearly 
broke  his  neck. 

A  very  noticeable  thing  here  is  a  great  marble  slab,  which 
was  the  tombstone  of  a  bishop,  with  a  long  and  elaborate  in- 
sci'iption.  The  interest  of  the  thing  hinges  on  the  fact  that 
on  the  other  side  of  the  great  slab  is  another  long  inscription, 
showing  it  to  have  been  primarily  used  as  the  tombstone  of 
an  ancient  Roman  pagan  of  consular  dignity. 

"Stealing  each  other's  tombstones!"  exclaimed  the  Gene 
ral. 

"  Let's  get  out  of  this,"  sighed  Mollie  ;  "  I  feel  queer  !  " 

Then  Mrs.  Wopsus  was  in  tears,  and  she  too  wanted  to  go 
away  and  get  up  out  of  the  earth  and  from  among  the  dead. 


328  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

And  the  place  was  unpleasant  to  Murietta,  too,  despite  the 
little  lamp  hung  at  every  corner,  and  the  old  pictures,  and 
the  crosses  and  images  of  the  Saviour  everywhere. 

To  him  there  was  something  wanting.  He  did  not  know 
how  much  he  missed  the  Countess  all  the  time.  He  would 
have  laughed  if  any  one  had  told  him  the  truth  ;  and  he  really 
would  have  believed  this  truth  to  be  a  lie.  There  was  one 
light  that  was  more  to  him  than  all  the  little  lights  that  hung 
along  these  mournful  walls  of  the  dead — the  light  of  her  great 
sad  eyes  of  brown. 

But  the  General  must  see  the  tomb  of  St.  Cecilia,  and 
thither  the  guide  led  the  way. 

Perhaps  the  most  interesting  feature  of  all  this  underground 
place  of  tombs  is  the  resting-place  of  St.  Cecilia.  On  the 
stone  wall  is  a  fresco  painting  of  the  departed,  in  a  fair  state 
of  preservation ;  and  also  a  picture  of  the  Saviour. 

You  are  bound  to  admit,  however,  that  these  paintings 
were  very  poor  productions  from  the  first.  They  are  done 
altogether  in  red  and  black  colors,  and  look  more  like  the 
paintings  of  the  savages  of  the  plains  on  their  skins  of 
buffalo. 

In  another  place  you  are  shown  two  bodies  in  stone  coffins. 
One  is  that  of  a  mummy,  and  it  is  not  much  unlike  those  of 
Egypt,  save  that  it  is  perfectly  white.  The  other  is  more 
ghastly — only  a  little  line  of  bones  lying  at  the  bottom,  sink 
ing,  as  it  were,  into  the  stone — resting,  resting,  resting. 

Mollie  stood  here  in  silence.  Her  hand  was  full  of  candies 
and  sweets,  but  they  were  untasted. 

"  Come,"  whispered  she  to  her  mother,  "  I  hear  strange 
sounds.  Perhaps  that  is  somebody  lost  away  out  yonder  in 
the  labyrinths  among  the  dead." 

Even  the  General  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  being  lost  in. 
the  six  hundred  miles  of  this  awful  place,  and  instinctively 
reached  out  his  hand  and  took  Johnny  by  the  coat-collar  and 
held  him  tight  and  fast. 


In  the  Catacombs.  329 

Mrs.  Wopsus  threw  her  arms  about  Mollie's  neck  and 
b\irst  into  tears. 

"  Don't  mash  my  hat,  mother,"  said  Mollie.  And  then 
she  shook  her  parent  off,  and  began  once  more  to  eat  her 
candy. 

The  voices  were  drawing  nearer.  There  was  a  glimmer  of 
light  through  the  solemn  passages.  It  was  only  another 
party  that  had  descended  another  way,  now  coming  up  to 
pay  a  pilgrimage  to  the  tomb  of  the  famous  patron  saint  of 
Song. 

Our  party  here  moved  on,  to  the  infinite  delight  of  Mollie, 
and  the  reliuf  of  all.  For,  as  Murietta  looked  back  over  his 
shoulder,  he  saw  that  this  new  party  was  headed  by  his  whi 
lom  friend,  the  doctor  and  missionary  of  Naples.  And  above 
the  noise  of  crushing  bones  under  their  feet  as  they  passed 
out,  and  the  accumulated  echoes  of  every  sound  through  the 
awful  chambers  of  death,  he  heard  the  clarion  voice  of  the 
Special  Correspondent  ringing  loud  and  clear. 

"  Good  heavens !  "  said  the  artist  to  himself  as  they  re 
gained  the  light,  "  that  monster,  that  ghoul,  has  come  to  steal 
away  a  bone  of  St.  Cecilia  !  " 

The  Countess  sat  in  her  carriage,  leaning  her  face  on  her 
hand.  She  did  not  see  the  party  till  they  came  suddenly 
through  the  gate.  She  evidently  had  not  expected  them  to 
return  so  soon.  She  lifted  her  face  half  frightened  ;  and  as 
she  did  so  there  were  tears  on  her  great  sweeping  lashes,  and 
her  face  was  still  wet  with  weeping. 

The  artist  took  his  seat  in  silence,  and  Mollie  was,  for  the 
first  time  and  for  a  wonder,  thoughtful.  They  drove  rapidly 
on,  for  the  suir  was  settling  to  the  west. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  were  before  the  little  church  of  St. 
Sebastian,  and  without  yet  having  spoken  to  the  Countess ; 
and  without  speaking,  the  artist  descended  and  entered,  while 
she  remained  seated  still  in  the  carriage  as  before. 

A  very  small  black  monk  was  kneeling  before  an  altar,  and 


330  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

rising  up  as  our  party  entered,  he  lighted  a  taper  on  the  staff, 
and  coming  forward,  pulled  aside  a  red  curtain,  and  showed 
the  original  footprints  of  our  Saviour. 

The  stone  is  of  a  brown  color,  hard  as  marble,  and  about 
eighteen  inches  square.  The  prints  are  side  by  side,  as 
close  as  possible,  are  rather  large,  and  set  at  least  an  inch 
deep  in  the  stone. 

The  rim  or  edge  of  the  stone  seems  to  be  cased  in  gold.  It 
stands  up  against  an  altar  to  the  right  of  the  entrance  to 
the  church,  or  monastery  as  it  is  called  here,  and  is  kept 
under  cover  behind  a  double  iron  gate.  Hero  you  are  also 
shown  an  arrow,  said  to  be  one  of  those  by  which  the  martyr 
fell,  and  also  a  portion  of  a  stone  pillar,  to  which  he  was 
bound  when  slain. 

Johnny  told  the  quiet  little  monk  that  he  had  seen  the 
whole  column  at  Milan. 

"  Very  likely,"  answered  the  priest,  gravely ;  "  for  there 
were  three  of  these  small  columns  set  together,  and  to  these 
three  was  St.  Sebastian  bound." 

"  Ah !  the  wealth  and  the  levity  of  these  places  of  wor 
ship  !  It  looks  bad  to  see  so  much  extravagance  in  this  way, 
when  there  is  so  much  poverty  and  misery  among  the  poor," 
said  the  General  to  the  monk. 

"  But,"  said  the  monk  in  answer,  "  when  we  reflect  that  it 
is  the  poor  who  chiefly  use  these  sacred  houses,  and  that  they 
there,  at  least,  are  peers  with  the  proudest  of  the  land,  it  is 
not  so  bad  after  all." 

The  General  saw  that  the  subject,  like  nearly  all  others  in 
the  world,  had  two  sides  to  it,  and  was  silent. 

While  they  were  here,  an  old  woman  came  in  with  her 
weaving  apparatus — a  part  of  a  loom  it  seemed — on  her 
shoulders,  and  setting  it  down  in  a  corner,  crossed  herself, 
said  a  prayer,  and  then  asked  to  see  the  sacred  relics. 
Murietta  remarked,  with  pleasure,  that  the  priest  lighted  the 
taper,  and  put  the  red  curtain  aside,  precisely  the  same  for 


In  the  Catacombs.  331 

this  old  weaver-woman,  as  he  did  for  the  party  of  sovereigns 
from  America. 

What  had  come  between  Murietta  and  the  Countess? 
Surely  nothing  had  been  said  or  done  that  day  by  either  that 
they  should  now  be  standing  wide  apart,  as  it  were. 

The  artist  took  his  seat  once  more,  and  once  more  without 
one  word.  The  lady  did  not  look  up.  As  the  carriages 
whirled  away,  that  the  party  might  see  the  sun  go  down  from 
the  Tomb  of  Metella,  the  lady's  little  pink  and  pearl  hands 
lay  still  on  the  flower-beds  of  rose  and  pink,  and  her  pretty 
baby-face  kept  trying  to  hide  back  behind  her  companion. 

Yea,  they  were  standing  wide  apart.  A  stream  was  flow 
ing  between  them.  It  was  growing  cold  in  their  hearts — 
cold  enough  to  freeze  the  flowing  stream  to  ice. 

Ruins  !  ruins  !  ruins  !  right  and  left.  After  passing  the 
Tomb  of  Metella,  with  its  girdle  of  oxen  skulls  bound  in 
wreaths — a  tomb  that  has  been  a  battlement,  a  palace,  and  a 
prison,  they  came  to  a  tomb  that  has  not  even  a  name  ;  and 
yet  it  is  almost  as  colossal  as  a  pyramid,  and  twice  as  grand. 

"  Marvellous,  marvellous  !  "  mused  the  General,  as  they 
turned  their  carriages,  and  rested  here  a  moment  before  re 
turning  to  Rome. 

On  the  top  of  this  lofty  and  colossal  structxire,  that  even 
the  most  imaginative  Italian  falters  before,  there  is  growing 
a  grove  of  olive  trees,  and  there  is  a  little  farm-house  perched 
up  there,  and  the  man  has  really  a  little  farm  on  the  top  of 
this  tomb. 

While  our  party  rested  here,  a  cock  came  to  the  edge  of  his 
little  world,  and,  strutting  up  and  down,  he  flapped  his  wings 
and  crowed  above  them,  loud  and  clear  and  defiant. 

Then  Johnny  rose  up,  arid  standing  in  his  seat,  answered 
back  the  challenge.  Then  the  cock  again  strutted  along  the 
edge  of  his  little  world,  and  looking  contemptiiously  down 
again,  crowed  and  crowed  and  crowed  as  the  party  drove  on. 

Here  are  ruins  that  will  probably  survive  all  other  struc- 


332  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

tures  now  in  existence,  save  the  Pyramids,  either  old  or 
new. 

The  one  thing  that  saddens  a  man  in  contemplating  these 
great  works  is  the  reflection  that  the  labor  was  all  done  by 
slaves.  Done  by  men  chiefly  brought  captive  from  other 
lands  and  made  to  waste  out  their  existence  here  in  most 
ignoble  toil  for  masters  as  cruel  and  as  insolent  as  the 
Pharaohs. 

Yonder  is  the  sacred  wood,  and,  hard  by,  the  ruins  of  the 
Temple  of  Bacchus.  Here  and  there  are  mounds,  and  you 
can  guess  what  lies  beneath.  Only  now  and  then,  the  ruins 
lift  in  mass  above  the  climbing  grass  and  shrubs  and  ti-ees. 
Sometimes,  however,  they  loom  up  as  if  they  would  never 
stop,  and  stand  hundreds  of  feet  in  the  air.  These  will 
never  fall.  The  earth  may  climb  up  around  them  ;  the  grass 
will  take  root,  and  in  time  will  smooth  the  rugged  front ; 
but  they  have  melted  together  as  it  were  in  one  solid  mass, 
and  stand  like  a  spur  of  the  Sierras. 

Kind  earth  claims  them  for  her  own,  and  has  pressed  them 
so  long  and  so  close  against  her  breast  that  they  have  sunk 
all  together,  brick  and  mortar  in  one  indistinguishable  mass. 

The  sun  had  gone  down  on  Rome ;  and  round  about  Rome 
on  the  mighty  mountain  tops  was  drawn  a  girdle  of  fire. 

Twenty  miles  away  to  the  west  as  they  returned,  flashed 
the  sea  in  the  dying  sun  of  Italy,  like  a  hemisphere  of 
flame. 

Before  them,  in  the  middle  of  the  great  Campagna,  with 
its  far-off  wall  of  eternal  and  snowy  mountains,  huddled 
together  the  white  houses  of  Rome,  like  a  flock  of  goats 
gathered  to  rest  for  the  night ;  and  mighty  St.  Peter's 
towered  above  them  all  like  a  tall  shepherd  keeping  watch 
and  ward. 

"  Now  I  can  see  that  it  was  no  chance  or  accident  that 
built  the  Eternal  City  in  the  centre  of  this  mighty  amphi 
theatre,"  said  Murietta.  "  Nature  ordered  it.  She  pointed 


In  the  Catacombs.  333 

to  the  little  group  of  hills  lifting  out  of  the  plain  by  the 
Tiber,  and  said,  '  Build  your  city  on  the  Palatine  ! ' ' 

The  Countess  did  not  answer ;  but  the  man  seemed  inspired 
with  the  scene,  and  went  on,  as  if  speaking  to  himself 

"  Yonder  mighty  crescent  of  snowy  mountains  seems  to 
me,  as  the  sun  is  fading  from  their  forked  summits,  to  be  but 
another,  a  more  magnificent  Coliseum.  Yonder  are  the 
gladiators  now,  battling  to  the  death — Papist  and  Protestant, 
Turk  and  Jew.  Rome  is  the  arena !  and  I  am  but  an  idle 
looker  on." 

Still  the  Countess  did  not  answer.  She  did  not  look  up 
or  even  lift  a  finger. 

What  could  have  been  the  matter  ?  The  stream  that 
flowed  between  them  was  indeed  frozen  over.  '  It  was  dark 
and  still.  It  was  dead  and  made  no  sound. 

They  drew  up  at  the  palace,  and  Murietta,  after  lifting  the 
lady  from  the  carriage  and  ringing  a  bell,  left  her,  and,  gath 
ering  his  cloak  about  him,  turned  away  with  no  other  word 
than  the  coldest  courtesies  of  the  occasion. 

He  was  half  down  the  steps. 

"  You.  will  come  to-morrow." 

He  turned,  folded  his  cloak  tighter  about  him,  but  did 
not  speak. 

"  You  will  come  to-morrow.      I  command  you  to  come  !  " 

The  door  opened,  and  she  disappeared. 

The  man  stood  there  and  tapped  the  step  a  moment  with 
his  foot,  and  then  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 


WITH  THE  ONE  FAIR  WOMAN. 

T  is  very  hard  indeed  to  write  a 
romance  altogether  out  of  facts. 
The  facts  refuse  all  the  time  to 
adjust  themselves.  They  are 
all  the  time  in  the  way.  The 
unimportant  facts  refuse  to  lie 
down  and  lie  still  and  be  passed 
over  as  they  should  be,  and  the 
important  ones  often  stand  up 
tall  and  white  and  cold,  and 
ghostly,  as  if  they  had  just  risen  from  a  grave 
yard,  and  did  not  want  to  be  disturbed. 

And  then  these  dull  scenes  all  want  to  be 
described  so  minutely.  They  keep  introducing 
themselves  and  sitting  down  before  you  like 
Italian  models,  ever  falling  in  position  as  they 
sit,  and  saying  all  the  time,  "  I  am  So-and-so, 
and  not  Thisand-this." 

People,  too,  are  tiresome.  These  real  people  are  hard  to 
handle.  They  are  not  exactly  what  you  want.  They  some 
times  persist  in  being  intolerably  dull  and  uninteresting,  and 
yet  all  the  time  and  withal  they  will  insist  on  being  put 
down  just  precisely  as  they  appeared,  and  will  determinedly 
insist  all  the  time  in  saying  exactly  the  same  stupid  things 


With  the   One  Fair  Woman.          335 

they  said  on  the  occasion  described  without  one  redeeming 
variation.  Better  to  break  up  your  work  root  and  branch, 
scatter  it  to  the  four  winds,  and  begin  with  stage,  scene, 
actors — all  from  your  own  brain. 

Murietta  called  at  the  palace  of  the  pink  Countess  in  the 
afternoon  of  the  next  day,  and  sent  up  his  card.  A  woman 
had  commanded,  and  he  would  obey.  Yet  he  knew  or  felt 
that  it  was  not  absolutely  necessary  that  he  should  call,  but 
he  did  so  partly  in  a  spirit  of  defiance.  He  wanted  to  show 
to  himself  and  the  world  that  he  proposed  to  do  as  he 
pleased  in  this  matter,  so  long  as  he  harmed  no  one,  and 
kept  his  heart  and  his  conscience  clear. 

He  was  glad,  very  glad,  when  he  was  told  that  she  was 
not  in ;  and  went  down  the  great  broad  brown  tufa  steps 
with  a  lighter  heart  than  usual. 

"  The  spell  is  broken,"  he  said  to  himself  almost  gaily,  as 
he  gained  the  street,  and  tapped  his  boot  with  his  cane. 
"  The  spell  is  broken,  the  charm  is  over,  and  I  am  again 
free,  and  well  escaped  from  a  sentiment  and  a  thraldom  that 
I  never  could  understand  in  the  least." 

Then  suddenly  he  stopped  and  began  to  think,  and  then 
his  brow  gathered  with  concern.  He  knew  perfectly  well 
that  she  was  not  out,  and  he  knew  just  as  certainly  that  she 
would  have  seen  him  if  she  could,  that  she  wanted  to  see 
him,  and  he  knew  that  something  was  wrong  at  the  palace 
of  the  beautiful  lady  in  pink. 

He  began  to  despise  himself  again  for  having  only  thought 
of  her  in  the  most  selfish  manner,  and  for  that  selfish  satis 
faction  which  he  felt  when  he  found  she  would  not  see  him, 
and  he  walked  on,  gloomy  and  full  of  conflicting  thought. 

As  he  slowly  sauntered  on  along  the  Via  Felice,  with  his 
head  down,  a  hand  reached  out  before  him  and,  looking  up, 
he  saw  the  pleasant  face  of  the  Secretary  of  Legation. 

"  I  am  going," — then  the  Secretary  blustered  and  fumbled 


336  The  One  Fair    Woman. 

in  his  vest  pocket,  and  drew  out  a  little  piece  of  paper  and  a 
little  piece  of  tobacco,  and  these  somehow  rolled  themselves 
together  between  thumb  and  finger,  as  they  only  can  between 
the  thumb  and  finger  of  a  Spaniard,  and  putting  the  end  of 
this  little  wisp  between  his  teeth,  he  found  a  match  in  the 
same  mysterious  manner,  touched  it  to  the  end  of  the  wisp, 
and  instantly  fired  himself  off,  while  the  smoke  poured  from 
his  mouth  as  from  the  mouth  of  a  cannon, — "  I  am  going  to 
one  of  the  Afternoons  of  an  American  lady,  the  amiable  Miss 
D.,  an  ancient  but  most  honored  lady;  and  that  is  just  as 
much  as  a  Secretary  of  Legation  should  say,  though  if  I  was 
again  writing  novels  I  might  say  a  great  deal  more,  and 
would  be  more  than  honored  if  you  would  accompany 
me." 

Murietta  was  just  in  the  mood  to  do  anything,  go  any 
where.  He  turned,  took  the  kind,  good  Secretary's  arm 
without  a  word,  and  went  on  silently  up  the  street.  He  was 
wondering  what  in  the  world  had  become  of  the  last  mouth. 
He  saw  that  the  deciduous  trees  which  had  been  quite  bare 
when  he  last  passed  that  way,  were  in  full  leaf,  and  casting 
cool  and  pleasant  shadows  over  at  least  a  hundred  happy 
peasants  asleep  in  the  open  street. 

"  What  in  the  world  have  I  been  doing  ?  "  he  asked  him 
self ;  "what  have  1  done  all  this  pleasant  and  dreamy  sum 
mer  month  ?  "  Then  he  thought  of  what  Carlton  had  said 
the  night  before  his  last  drive  with  the  Countess,  and  was 
sorely  nettled.  "  Where  am  I  going  now  ?  "  He  said  this 
to  himself  almost  audibly,  and  suddenly  stopped  and  turned 
to  the  good-natured  Secretary. 

"  Pray  tell  me  where  we  are  going,  and  whom  I  am  to  see 
there  ?  " 

"  You  are  going  with  me  to  one  of  the  social  afternoon 
gatherings  of  the  amiable  and  ancient  Miss  D.  A  very 
proper  lady,  I  do  assure  you,  else  a  Secretary  of  Legation 
would  not  be  found  there,  I  will  be  sworn." 


With  the  One  Fair  Woman.          337 

11  Bxit  whom  shall  we  meet  there  ?  " 

"Artists  and  poets,  literary  and  scientific  people  from  all 
parts  of  the  world.  The  best  people,  I  assure  you,  the  very 
best  place  in  Rome  for  a  man  like  me  ;  lots  of  brain  and  not 
many  clothes." 

"  And  not  many  ladies,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Ladies  !  no  ;  no  ladies  to  speak  of.  Yet  there  are  the 
tall  long  people  from  the  States,  a  sort  of  flag-staff  species, 
that  vibrate  and  flutter  between  the  two  sexes  and  belong  to 
neither,  yet  claim  all  the  privileges  of  both, — I  mean  the 
special  correspondents  in  gold-rimmed  spectacles,  usually 
from  the  City  of  Boston ;  but,  further  than  these,  and  an  old 
imbecile  and  superannuated  princess  or  two,  you  will  find 
nothing  much  in  the  shape  of  women." 

Murietta  was  amused,  and  was  also  glad  to  know  that 
there  was  no  probability  of  meeting  the  One  Fair  Woman  at 
this  gathering  of  Bohemians  on  the  hill. 

On  reflection  he  began  to  see  that  he  had  really  been  keep 
ing  out  of  society,  or  at  least  had  lacked  courage  to  go  to 
more  than  one  pleasant  gathering,  for  fear  he  should  come 
face  to  face  with  Annette.  Therefore  he  was  well  pleased 
to  know  that,  in  this  company  at  least,  which  had  been  so 
humorously  pictured  by  the  good-natured  novelist  and  secre 
tary,  he  should  be  quite  certain  to  not  encounter  her. 

They  climbed  the  longest,  steepest,  narrowest  stone  stairs 
in  all  Rome,  perhaps.  It  was  a  perfect  corkscrew,  and  went 
round  and  round  and  round  in  the  dark  till  they  both  grew 
dizzy -headed. 

Then  at  last  they  pulled  at  the  red  tassel  of  a  rope  that 
hung  there,  like  a  little  red  lamp  trying  hard  to  make  itself 
seen,  and  then  they  entered  a  very  pleasant  ante-room,  and 
leaving  their  hats  and  canes  and  cloaks,  they  passed  to  a  door 
which  opened  into  a  most  pleasant  place,  and  out  of  which 
poured  a  murmur  of  most  pleasant  voices,  as  of  a  great  mul 
titude,  talking  in  all  the  tongues  of  Europe. 
15 


338  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

They  wore  met  by  a  busy,  bustling  little  woman,  who  kept 
fluttering  about  and  catching  her  breath  and  coughing  and 
flipping  her  fan,  and  introducing  everybody  to  everybody, 
and  bumping  against  people,  and  all  the  time  keeping  her 
part  of  the  saloons — and  that  was  nearly  every  part  at  the 
same  time — in  a  perfect  state  of  excitement  and  turmoil. 

This  little  lady's  name  should  have  been  Mother  Bunch, 
for  she  was  so  fat  and  so  good-natured  and  so  delightfully 
stupid.  She  had  corkscrew  curls  all  about  her  ears  and 
shoulders.  In  fact,  nearly  every  woman  there  had,  more  or 
less,  corkscrew  curls  about  her.  Even  the  little  brown  poodle 
there,  who  seemed  terribly  jealous  of  every  attention  to  his 
mistress,  and  who  pretended  to  sleep  all  the  time  and  yet 
never  slept  at  all,  unless  he  did  it  while  he  was  snapping  at 
some  body,  even  this  little  poodle  had  little  corkscrew  curls 
hanging  from  and  about  his  little  flossy,  brown  tan  and  leather 
ears. 

There  were  a  great  many  tall,  bony,  and  lonesome  women 
in  corkscrew  curls,  moving  solemnly  about  behind  a  teacup 
and  saucer. 

These  women  wore  gold-rimmed  spectacles,  and  nearly 
every  one  there  had  at  least  once  in  her  life  mounted  the 
stump,  and  in  the  face  of  the  world  uttered  unintelligible 
philippics  against  man,  and  in  behalf  of  her  down-trodden 
sex. 

These  tall,  bony,  hungry-looking  women  from  Boston  tow 
ered  above  the  other  sex  assembled  there,  like  flag-staffs  above 
the  procession  in  a  Fourth  of  July  Celebration. 

They  went  round,  behind  their  gold-rimmed  spectacles  and 
teacup  and  saucer,  thrusting  their  long  lean  necks  right  and 
left,  and  looking  like  the  giraffes  in  a  menagerie.  You  would 
almost  expect  them  to  turn  their  heads  to  one  side,  reach  up 
and  nip  off  the  ivy  leaves  that  had  been  frescoed  around  the 
border  of  the  ceiling. 

What  an  odd  assemble  it  was  to  be  sure  !     There  sat  the 


With  the   One  Fair  Woman.          339 

man,  in  the  centre  of  an  admiring  group,  who  had  devoted 
his  life  to  prowling  through  the  Catacombs  and  dragging  up 
Christian  bones  to  the  vulgar  gaze  of  the  curious,  and  remov 
ing  their  simple  tombstones  to  the  museum  of  Rome. 
I  This  was  the  man  who  had  torn  the  ivy  and  the  old  fig- 
trees  from  the  Coliseum,  and  he  was  now  telling,  with  a  nour 
ish  of  triumph,  what  he  expected  to  find  when  he  excavated 
the  very  foundations  of  the  Coliseum.  This  was  the  man 
who  had  renovated  the  ruins  of  the  Baths  of  Caracalla,  and 
made  the  place  vile  with  asphalte  and  the  smell  of  tar  and 
turpentine.  Yet  this  man  set  himself  lip  for  quite  a  hero, 
and  was  certainly  quite  a  centre  here. 

There  was  a  tall,  lean  figure  standing  before  him,  imploring 
a  few  Christian  bones  for  his  private  collection,  and  at  least 
one  bone  of  some  celebrated  martyr. 

The  missionary  of  Naples  was  promised  all  that  he  desired 
by  this  little  autocrat, — who,  like  all  sensible  Italians,  sat 
gracefully  on  the  sofa,  and  rested  and  grew  fat,  while  the  un 
happy  storks  and  giraffes  stalked  and  wandered  mournfully 
ai-ound.  Then  a  tall  woman  in  gold-rimmed  spectacles  came 
by.  Whipping  out  a  note-book,  pencil,  and  a  two-foot  rule, 
she  stood  before  the  little  man,  and  seemed  to  monopolize  him 
for  the  remainder  of  the  day. 

There  were  good  and  great  men,  too,  standing  away  here 
and  there  in  the  corners.  And  now  and  then  you  stood  be 
fore  a  man,  as  you  wandered  around  and  wedged  yourself 
through  the  crowd,  whose  name  had  been  familiar  to  you 
even  in  your  childhood.  And,  after  all,  Marietta  began  to 
fall  in  love  with  this  place,  and  the  puffy,  fussy  little  woman 
who  had  come  and  set  up  a  little  kingdom  on  the  Seventh 
Hill  of  the  Caesars  ;  and,  in  spite  of  his  determination  to  re 
treat  as  soon  as  possible,  he  now  found  he  was  loth  to  go 
away. 

There  were,  to  change  the  figure,  some  pretty  flowers  there 
too.  The  violet  looked  xip  from  the  base  of  the  wall  to  the 


34°  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

tall  sunflower  that  tossed  its  head  and  lorded  the  land,  and 
the  violet  peeped  out  from  under  the  thorn  and  the  thistle, 
with  its  sweet  blue  eyes,  and  gave  the  place  a  charm  and  a 
perfect  freshness.  It  was  a  sort  of  human  forest. 

The  menagerie,  to  restore  the  figure  again,  was  complete. 
If  the  giraffe  was  there,  then  the  mild-eyed  gazelle  was  there 
also.  Beautiful  young  girls  sat  there,  as  silent  as  if  they  were 
painted  on  the  wall  against  which  they  sat,  as  they  watched 
the  tall  and  terrible  women  moving  to  and  fro  upon  their 
various  missions  in  Rome.  These  beautiful  children  made 
one  in  love  with  Silence. 

The  lion  was  there  also,  the  shaggy  Nmnidian  lion,  and  he 
moved  about  and  shook  his  mane  and  roared  in  a  voice  and 
manner  that  made  you  feel  very  certain,  and  also  very  sorry, 
that  the  lion  is  and  ever  will  be  a  beast  in  spite  of  his 
strength  and  dignity. 

The  elephant  and  the  hippopotamus  waddled  and  toddled 
about  the  grounds,  and,  like  beasts  just  let  loose  to  be  fed, 
snapped  and  snarled  at  each  other  from  behind  their  wires, 
and  talked  art  and  disputed  with  a  zeal  that  was  equalled 
only  by  their  ignorance. 

Good-natured  old  gentlemen,  dukes,  princes,  consuls,  and 
secretaries  of  legations,  went  about  feeding  the  pretty  animals 
— and  the  plain  animals  too — in  the  menagerie,  with  tea  and 
cake  and  buns  and  bread  and  butter ;  and  pretty  innocent 
Mollie  stood  back  in  the  corner  by  the  side  of  Paolini,  look 
ing  as  happy  as  possible  and  eating  as  fast  as  an  old  General 
could  feed  her.  She  was  playing  the  part  of  a  little  pet  griz 
zly  bear  standing  on  his  hind  legs  and  eating  nuts  from  the 
hand  of  a  Californian. 

Such  was  American  society  in  Rome,  or  at  least  the  busy, 
the  active,  the  accessible,  the  working  wing  of  it ;  for  be  it 
known  that  the  majority  of  the  people  present  who  contri 
buted  to  make  up  this  pleasant  little  menagerie  were  Ameri 
cans. 


With  the  One  Fair  Woman.          341 

The  party  were  thinning  out  and  melting  asvay.  Muri- 
etta  had  found  the  modest  little  Secretary  of  Legation,  and  the 
two  together  were  seeking  for  the  amiable  little  hostess  to 
say  good-bye. 

There  was  a  nutter  about  the  door,  and  she  was  not  to  be 
found.  Then  in  a  moment  there  was  a  murmur  of  admira 
tion  just  audible  all  around  the  saloon,  and  Murietta  shrank 
back  behind  the  little  Secretary  and  close  against  the  wall, 
and  as  well  out  of  sight  as  possible. 

The  crowd  parted  before  her  as  she  passed  on.  Never  yet 
did  woman  move  with  such  grace,  such  quiet  power,  and  such 
noble  presence  as  did  that  lady  then  and  there,  as  she  crossed 
the  saloon  with  her  father,  the  iron-faced  soldier,  and  sat 
down  dreamily  on  a  lounge  by  his  side. 

Murietta,  by  accident,  had  settled  back  against  the  wall  in 
this  very  same  direction.  He  was  standing  now  almost  in 
reach  of  her  hand.  He  hardly  dared  to  breathe.  He  was 
wondering  if  she  did  not  hear  his  heart  beat,  and  then  he 
began  to  look  in  vain  for  an  opportunity  to  steal  away  un 
seen. 

Just  then  the  kind  little  hostess,  who  had  led  Annette  and 
her  father  to  the  seat,  caught  sight  of  the  artist.  There  was 
no  escaping ;  there  was  no  time  for  excuse  or  explanation. 
He  came  forth  from  his  retreat  as  the  little  woman  called  his 
name,  and  an  informal  introduction,  a  simple,  sudden,  hand- 
to-hand,  Bohemian  introduction  passed  in  a  moment. 

The  lady  did  not  rise.  She  sat  perfectly  still  and  com 
posed  all  the  time ;  yet  she  was  neither  disdainful  nor 
indifferent.  She  was  simply  perfectly  at  home,  and  by  her 
easy  manners  and  careless  off-hand  conduct  did  more  to  make 
Murietta  satisfied  with  himself  and  at  rest,  than  anything 
that  she  could  have  said  or  done. 

The  artist  settled  down  in  a  chair  at  the  head  of  the  sofa, 
with  his  arms  thrown  carelessly  over  the  head  of  the  covered 
settee,  and  in  a  moment  was  talking  on  the  old  and  easy 


342  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

topic  of  all  travellers  in  that  sunny  land, — art  and  the  future 
of  Italy. 

Gallant  and  graceful  men  would  come,  pay  their  compli 
ments  to  the  belle  of  Rome  and  pass  on,  looking  fondly  back 
as  one  might  fancy  Adam  looked  on  leaving  Paradise  ;  but 
the  artist,  to  his  intense  delight,  was  specially  favored  by 
fortune,  and  sat  there  and  talked  as  if  he  had  known  this 
lady  all  his  life. 

Now  and  then  the  scarred  and  iron-faced  soldier  would  say 
a  word  or  two,  but  his  mind  seemed  above  and  beyond  the 
tame  surroundings.  His  soul  was  riding  on  the  smoke  of 
battle.  The  old  commander  was  marshalling  his  regiments, 
and  fighting  OA'er  again  the  battles  that  had  been  lost.  It  is 
a  dangerous  thing  for  a  man  to  engage  in  great  contests  and 
stretch  his  mind  to  its  utmost  tension  in  the  accomplishment 
of  herculean  tasks.  His  soul  becomes  keyed  to  that  high 
place,  and  he  cannot  come  back  to  earth  and  be  satisfied  any 
more  with  common  things. 

Yes  he,  the  artist,  had  been  to  Naples,  and  he  detested 
Naples. 

"  And  do  you  like  Naples  ?  " 

"  To  me,"  answered  Annette,  "  Naples  is  a  dream  of 
paradise.  I  think  it  perfectly  lovely." 

"  Well,  yes,"  answered  Murietta,  *'  now  that  I  think  of  it, 
I,  too,  like  Naples  above  all  the  world." 

Then  the  lady  paused  a  moment,  and  lifting  her  great, 
dai'k,  sweeping  lashes,  so  full  of  poetry,  and  passion  held  at 
will,  she  said : 

"  And  I  ascended  Mount  Vesuvius,  I  and  father  together, 
and  found  it  perfectly  delightful.  And  what  do  you  think 
happened  ?  Ah,  it  was  so  touching  and  so  beautiful !  " 

Murietta  leaned  forward  to  listen.     He  could  not  guess. 

"  Well  then,"  laughed  the  lady  gaily,  "  I  will  tell  you.  As  we 
rode  up  the  broad  carriage  road  winding  above  the  sea  toward 
the  hermitage,  there  was  a  party  of  two  in  advance  of  us." 


With  the  One  Fair  Woman.          343 

"  A  party  of  two.  Nothing  remarkable  in  that,  unless 
perhaps  they  were  brigands  or  lovers." 

"  No,  nothing  remarkable  in  the  number,  or  in  the  men,  so 
far  as  I  know,  for  I  never  saw  the  faces  of  either  of  them. 
But  this  is  the  pretty  little  romance  of  it.  The  pretty, 
winding,  watered  road  began  to  be  starred  and  strewn  with 
little  leaves  of  pink  and  crimson." 

"And  then!" 

"Why,  that  is  all;"  and  the  great  lashes  lifted,  and  the 
fair  and  beautiful  woman  looked  at  the  man  a  moment,  and 
then  let  her  eyes  fall  to  the  carpet,  and  said  softly,  and  as  if 
in  a  dream,  and  as  if  she  was  remembering  something  very 
pleasant,  and  telling  it  over  only  to  herself  and  not  to  a 
stranger,  "  the  man  before  me,  who  rode  up  the  mountain  iu 
the  sun,  was  scattering  roses  in  ray  path !  " 


CHAPTER  XL. 


BREAD    ON    THE    WATERS. 


HE  man  who  is  miserable  is 
also  the  man  who  is  happy. 
He  is,  in  fact,  the  only  man 
who  is  really  happy.  A  man 
may  not  reap  till  he  has  first 
ploughed.  No  one  can  under 
stand  joy  till  he  has  first  felt 
misery.  Nature  seems  to  be 
a  vulgar  commercial  shop 
keeper.  All  things  seem  to  have  a 
price.  There  are  a  few  men,  howevei1, 
who  are  so  fortunate  that  they  aro 
sometimes  able  to  get  a  little  happiness, 
or  at  least  pleasure  in  advance  of  pay 
ment  ;  on  credit,  as  it  were.  But  then, 
when  these  men  come  to  pay  for  it 
they  have  to  pay  such  enormous  interest  that  they  are  ruined. 
Then  there  are  other  men  who  come  to  their  full  estate 
and  fortune  with  the  ruddy  hue  of  youth  on  their  faces  and 
full  of  sunshine  in  their  hearts.  No,  no  !  these  men  have  not 
suffered,  neither  have  they  enjoyed.  They  are  children  still. 
You  may  follow  this  idea  down  till  you  come  to  a  stone 


Bread  on  the    Waters.  345 

standing  placid  and  still,  and  always  serene  and  peaceful,  but 
in  the  form  and  expression  of  a  man :  and  this  form  of  a 
man,  this  stone,  has  not  suffered  at  all.  It  cannot  enjoy. 

Fire  in  the  eye  and  furrows  on  the  face.  Let  these 
things  come  when  they  may,  they  have  their  meaning.  A 
man  may  crowd  forty  years  into  forty  days  and  nights  of  his 
impetuous  life,  if  he  be  large  enough  of  soul  to  hold  them, 
and  may  die  an  old  man  at  thirty. 

Nature  keeps  her  own  books  and  baptismal  records,  and 
all  that,  herself.  It  would  be  interesting  if  we  could  some 
times  manage  to  have  her  books  and  man's  compared.  We 
should  be  startled  at  the  discrepancies. 

Well,  let  no  man  murmur,  or  woman  weep,  in  vain.  The 
storm  is  only  the  prophet  and  forerunner  of  fair  weather. 
The  peasants  know  perfectly  well  that  they  are  going  to  have 
a  warm  and  an  early  spring  when  they  have  had  a  hard  and 
unhappy  winter.  If  a  pendulum  swings  far  to  the  left,  it 
must  swing  just  exactly  as  far  to  the  right  when  it  returns. 
All  things  are  pretty  evenly  balanced.  The  law  of  compen 
sation  is  exact  arid  unalterable.  The  great  store  of  Nature  is 
indeed  a  big,  vulgar  shop.  You  must  pay  for  everything  you 
get.  And  what  is  very  interesting  to  know  is  the  fact  that 
the  peasant  has  just  as  much  of  Nature's  currency  in  his 
pocket  as  the  prince. 

Murietta  had  been  doing  a  large  business  in  this  line  from 
the  first.  From  the  very  first  he  had  felt  and  suffered  much. 
Standing  on  a  peak  of  the  Cordilleras  when  still  a  boy,  with 
the  sun  and  wind  of  the  Pacific  in  his  yellow  hair,  he  had 
dared  to  question  why  he  had  ever  been  born.  Said  some 
one,  revolutions  never  go  backward.  Ask  this  qiiestion,  and 
sometimes  the  answer  may  come  to  you  when  you  are  tired 
and  want  to  rest.  Then  you  cannot  rest. 

When  you  are  suffering  intensely  you  can  safely  say  to  your 
self,  "  I  am  heaping  up  money,  I  am  putting  it  in  the  bank 
of  Nature,  and  some  day  it  will  be  paid  back  with  interest." 
15* 


346  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

Now  it  seemed  to  Murietta,  as  he  sat  there  so  perfectly  full 
of  calm  delight,  that  there  never  any  more  could  be  even  the 
breath  of  a  storm. 

His  roses  in  the  road,  in  the  path  of  the  strangers  who  fol 
lowed,  had  been  bread  upon  the  waters. 

He  did  not  say  one  word  when  she  told  this.  He  did  not 
even  look  at  her,  for  fear  of  he  knew  not  what.  He  did  not 
speak  or  answer  her,  or  even  lift  his  eyes  to  look  at  her.  He 
was  satisfied.  It  was  enough. 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  he  liked  Naples.  He  even  was 
certain  that  he  loved  Naples  and  all  her  motley  wretched  peo 
ple.  He  liked  all  Italy  and  all  the  people  of  Italy  ;  the  beg 
garly  princes  of  the  old  Jew  quarter  of  Rome,  and  the 
princely  beggai's  on  the  Spanish  steps.  He  loved  them  all. 
For  had  not  she  said  she  liked  Italy,  and  was  not  that 
enough  ?  He  was  willing — he  wished  to  be  blind.  He 
wanted  henceforth  to  see  only  through  her  eyes. 

Murietta  did  not  dare  remain  long  in  her  presence.  In 
fact,  for  all  that  he  had  thought  and  said  and  felt,  he  had 
been  before  her  but  a  few  minutes.  But  such  minutes  ! 
They  weree  ons  of  bliss.  They  were  great  big  bank-notes  that 
Nature  had  handed  him,  and  bade  him  go  and  take  a  glorious 
holiday. 

The  good  old  Commander  came  down  from  his  cloud  of 
battle-smoke  as  the  artist  rose  to  say  good-day,  and  in  a 
dreamy  and  indistinct  way  said  something  of  wishing  to  see 
this  young  man  at  his  own  house  ;  and  then,  to  the  unutter 
able  delight  of  Murietta,  Annette  took  up  the  tangled  thread, 
and  laid  it  straight  and  made  its  meaning  intelligible,  by 
means  of  dates  and  numbers  and  names  on  a  card  which  she 
now  got  from  the  dreamy  old  Commander,  who  had  gone 
back  to  ride  on  his  battle-cloud  ;  and  then,  by  means  of  a 
pencil  and  a  few  bold  clear  words  in  a  hand  as  clear  and 
strong  as  if  it  might  hold  and  control  a  world  of  its  own,  she 
blazed  out  the  future  path  of  the  artist's  mind  for  many  a  day. 


Bread  on  the   Waters.  347 

She  had  simply  written  the  day,  or  evening,  in  which  her 
house  was  open  and  they  were  all  at  home.  But  this  to  him 
was  more  than  all  the  wealth  of  banks,  than  all  the  world  be 
side. 

Poor  deluded  boy,  self-deluded  !  He  did  not  know,  he  did 
not  think,  could  not  think,  that  she  had  said  nothing,  done 
nothing,  done  nothing  whatever  that  she  might  not  have 
said  and  done  to  any  one,  even  the  most  humble  and  least 
favored  in  all  that  house. 

Then  he  retreated  from  her  presence,  and  found  the  good 
secretary  hidden  away  in  a  corner  where  the  light  would  not 
fall  too  heavily  on  his  clothes,  and  then,  turning  to  the  good 
Mother  Bunch,  they  bowed  themselves  away,  and  were  gone. 

Down  the  corkscrew  steps,  and  down  and  down,  and 
around  and  around  and  around.  Murietta  laughed  as  he 
descended,  and  he  knew  not  why  he  laughed.  His  heart  was 
so  full  of  happiness  that  it  jostled  and  spilled  over  and  on  to 
the  steps  as  they  made  their  unsteady  descent. 

"  We  have  been  up  in  heaven,"  he  said  to  the  good  Secre 
tary,  as  they  ,shook  hands  at  the  great  portal,  and  then 
turned  and  gave  to  the  beggars  who  crowded  around  all  the 
money  he  could  find  in  his  pockets. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  A  pretty  figure  that,"  laughed  the  Secretary, 
as  he  said  good-bye,  "  a  figure  that  might  be  used  by  a 
novelist.  It  was  indeed  heaven  ;  and,  like  heaven,  it  was  very 
hard  to  attain.  Let  us  hope  that  we  have  not  descended  into 
hell."  And,  so  saying,  the  novelist  and  secretary  bowed  very 
low  ;  and  then,  waving  their  hands,  went  on  their  way. 

The  artist  again  stood-  alone  in  the  street,  but  he  did  not 
feel  alone.  If  all  the  hundreds  of  millions  who  have  laid 
down  and  died  in  Rome,  who  have  made  the  very  roads  and 
streets,  even  the  soil  of  Rome  for  many  feet  deep,  out  of  their 
dust,  had  risen  up,  he  could  not  have  felt  more  in  the  pre 
sence  of,  and  in  sympathy  with,  his  kind. 

It  is  a  bad  sign  if  you  feel  lonesome  in  a  city.     And  yet  it 


348  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

is  no  uncommon  feeling.  And,  too,  if  a  man  does  feel  lone 
some  in  a  city  he  feels  it  terribly.  There  is  no  man  so  lone 
some  as  a  man  who  is  lonesome  in  a  crowd  so  thick  that  the 
people  jostle  him  with  their  elbows. 

This  man  was  not  a  bit  exalted.  He  gave  away  all  his 
money  to  beggars.  He  could  have  taken  the  little  urchin, 
clad  in  sheepskin  even  in  summer,  who  ran  by  his  side  and 
asked  for  a  sou,  into  his  arms  and  kissed  him  ;  yet,  when  he 
saw  Carlton  coming  down  the  street  on  his  way  to  the  popu 
lar  and  populous  Greco,  he  tui-ned  up  a  court  and  escaped  him. 

Why  had  he  done  this  ?  He  did  not  know.  Perhaps  he 
did  not  wish  to  speak  to  him  ?  Possibly  he  was  oftended 
with  him  ?  Not  so.  He  could  not  have  shaped  the  reason 
into  expression,  or  have  given  it  utterance.  But  the  truth 
is,  he  felt  that  this  day  was  sacred.  It  was  to  him  a  holy 
day.  He  felt  that  it  would  be  profanity  to  speak.  He 
wanted  to  think,  to  dream,  to  drift.  He  did  not  want  to 
speak  to  Carlton,  because  he  wanted  to  think  of  Annette. 

And  now  that  he  was  happy,  he  did  not  stop  to  think  that 
this  would  end  some  day.  He  felt  that  henceforth  he  should 
for  ever  walk  on  in  the  sun.  It  seemed  to  him  just  as  if  it 
would  never  be  night  any  more  in  figure  or  in  fact.  His 
soul  was  drifting  away  into  and  over  a  great  sea  of  light 
that  knew  not  any  shore.  How  could  he  then  think  of 
shore,  or  shipwreck,  or  anything  that  had  a  dark  side  or  any 
disaster  in  it  ? 

There  are  three  things,  at  least,  in  art  worth  seeing  in 
Home,  outside  the  Vatican.  One  of  these,  possibly  the  first, 
is  the  Dying  Gladiator.  Then  there  is  the  Moses  of  Michael 
Angelo,  out  in  the  rich  old  church  near  the  Coliseum. 

This  last-named  is  an  ugly  figure,  with  horns  on  its  head. 
It  sits  there  right  before  you,  as  if  it  had  come  down  from 
some  high  place  to  get  close  to  you,  and  appeal  to  you,  and 
absorb  you  into  its  awful  self.  It  sits  there  lifting  its  wrinkled 
brows  all  day  to  God. 


Bread  on  the   Waters.  349 

That  figure  seems  as  full  of  life,  of  husbanded  strength,  of 
suppressed  power,  as  the  Nile,  when  flowing  dark  and  full  of 
flood,  and  lapping  the  topmost  limit  of  its  stony  embank 
ment. 

Whatever  you  may  be,  standing  before  this  awful  form  of 
deified  man,  be  you  Papist,  Protestant,  Jew  or  Pagan, 
you  feel  somehow  that  from  ovit  of  a  man  like  that,  and  only 
that,  there  could  have  flowed  a  stream  and  tide  of  people 
with  all  their  laws  and  ceremonies  intact — even  from  this 
fountain-head  before  you,  sitting  there  with  all  the  awful 
majesty  and  desolation  of  Sinai  in  the  desert,  that  should 
flow  on  forever  to  the  eternal  sea. 

The  third  and  last,  if  it  is  not  the  first,  is  a  little  face, 
thrown  back  over  the  shoulder,  looking  at  you  from  under 
the  careless  brown  hair,  with  the  lips  half  parted,  as  if  she  had 
a  story  to  tell,  and  you  were  bound  to  stand  there  and  look 
and  listen,  and  listen  and  look,  till  you  made  out  all  the  story 
yourself. 

Murietta  went  and  stood  before  this  picture,  and  alone. 
Whenever  any  one  with  a  red  book,  who  had  the  good  taste 
to  find  the  little  treasure  on  the  walls  of  the  Barbarini  Palace, 
would  stop  before  the  sad  face  of  the  Cenci,  he  would  pass  on 
a  moment,  and  only  a  moment,  until  the  disappointed  visitor 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  shut  up  his  book,  as  if  disgusted  with 
the  laudations  heaped  upon  this  little  picture,  and  then  he 
would  return. 

There  he  stood  and  listened,  and  listened  and  stood,  and 
watched  the  light  come  and  go  from  the  great  sad  eyes ; 
watched  the  blood  flow  and  fall  and  pulsate  through  the  neck  ; 
watched  the  parted  lips  till  the  soul  seemed  passing  through 
them,  and  then  the  sun  was  down,  and  the  story  was  finished. 
He  knew  her  now,  and  all  her  awful  sorrows.  Their  souls 
stood  close  together.  Lawless  and  terrible  both  of  these,  and 
mighty  for  good  or  ill. 

How  singular  it  is  that  all  beautiful  things  are  sad  !    Every 


350 


The  One  Fair    Woman. 


greafc  face  seems  to  be  a  flood-gate  of  tears  that  is  about  to 
burst.  This  face  of  the  Cenci  is  so,  the  Moses  of  Angelo  is 
so ;  the  face  of  the  Gladiator  would  be  so,  only  that  he  is  a 
soldier,  and  is  weeping  blood. 


CHAPTER  XLL 


THE  CALIFORNIA!!  GIKL. 

T   was   a   week,  one    full   long 
week,  before  the  time  when  the 
artist  hoped  to  meet  Annette  in. 
her  own  home.    He  could  not  sit 
there  before  her  picture,  which 
he  had  now  brought  into    the 
full  light,  and  made   a  sort  of 
shrine,  and  look  at  it  all  the 
time.        What  should   he  do  ? 
Finally,  he  found  himself  ascend 
ing  the  steps  of  the  Hotel  Ville,  and  heard  a  shout 
and  a  bounding  step  that  was  not  to  be  mistaken. 
"  Bet  your  life  \  Oh  I  bet  your  life  I'm  glad  to 
see  you,  so  glad  to  see  you  ;  "  and  the    honest, 
open-hearted  little  lady  threw  her  arms  about  his 
neck,  and  laughed  till  she  cried. 
"  Why,  Mollie,  what  in  the  world  is  the  matter  ?  "  said  he 
at  last,  as  he,  half  smothered,  disengaged   himself  from  the 
girl,  and  stood  smiling  at  her  enthusiasm  and  easy  habits. 

"  Matter  !  Nothing  the  matter  at  all,  only  I've — I've  got 
something  nice  to  tell  you."  She  stood  swinging  her  hat  by 
the  ribbons,  for  it  had  been  pushed  off  in  her  haste  to 
embrace  her  brother,  as  she  sometimes  called  Murietta,  and 


352  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

holding  her  head  to  one  side,  and   looking  very  bashful  and 
mischievous. 

"Well,  Mollie,  what  is  it?"  said  he,  as  they  sauntered 
along  the  hall  toward  the  parlor,  while  she  still  swung  her 
hat,  and  held  her  head  to  one  side,  and  looked  the  very 
picture  of  perfect  happiness. 

"No,  I  won't  tell  you,"  pouted  the  saucy  girl.  "  It's  my 
little  secret.  My  own  little  bit  of  a  secret,  the  only  one  I 
ever  had  in  my  life,  and  I  intend  to  keep  it.  I  intend  to 
keep  it  all  day  to  myself."  Then  she  held  her  head  still 
lower  to  one  side,  and  swung  her  hat  as  if  she  intended  to 
twist  the  ribbons  off,  and  send  it  flying  through  the  window. 

"  Come,  come,  Mollie,  tell  me.  It  must  be  something  nice, 
you  seem  so  very  happy  !  " 

"  It  is  nice,  and  I  am  happy,  bet  your  life  !  "  Then  she 
stopped  swinging  her  hat,  thought  a  moment,  and  then 
diving  into  her  pocket  and  holding  out  her  hand  to  Marietta, 
said,  "  Have  some  goodies  ?  " 

"Certainly,  Mollie.  But  now,  about  that  wonderful  little 
secret  that  you  are  going  to  keep  all  day,  and  that  you  told 
me  about  the  moment  I  came,  and  that  you  will  tell  me 
before  ten  minutes  longer  ;  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Well  now,  don't  you  tell.  Mamma  knows  it,  and  papa 
knows  it,  and  the  Count  Paolini  knows  it,  and  that  is  all. 
Won't  tell  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Hope  you  may  die  if  you  tell  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  now  listen,  this  is  my  little  secret — all  mine,  you 
know,  but  I  can't  keep  it.  The  Count  made  me  promise  not 
to  tell,  and  he  is  so  very  particular.  Well,  now,  he's  in 
there,"  pointing  to  the  parlor,  as  they  still  sauntered  up  and 
around  the  hall,  looking  at  the  pictures  and  statuary,  "  and 
don't  you  let  it  out  when  you  go  in.  Well,  he  don't  want 
any  big  wedding  either,  but  I  do  ;  bet  your  life  I  didn't  come 


The  Californian   Girl.  353 

all  the  way  from  California  to  be  married  off  like  a  dummy. 
Not  much,  bet  your  life !  That  ain't  me.  Have  another 
goodie  ?  " 

"  "Yes,  Mollie.  I  am  feeling  so  very  well  to-day  that  I 
feel  like  I  could  almost  eat  you." 

"  Well,  there  you  are,  a  whole  handful.  And  now  I  am 
going  to  tell  you  my  little  secret." 

She  stood  before  him  blushing,  with  her  pretty  lips  pouted 
out  and  her  mouth  full  of  sugar-plums.  She  laid  her  head 
to  one  side,  swung  her  hat  faster  than  before,  and  began. 

"  Now,  you  mustn't  tell ;  hope  you  may  die,  and  all 
that  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  Mollie,  1  know  all  about  it." 

"Shut  up!  you  don't!  " 

"But  I  do." 

The  hat  stopped  swinging,  and  the  pretty  lips  pouted  out, 
and  then  she  stooped,  reached  into  her  pocket,  and  got 
another  handful  of  candies. 

After  a  moment  the  old  mischievous  look  came  back  into 
the  eyes  of  the  innocent  girl,  and  she  began : 

"  Now  I'll  bet  you  a  forty-dollar  hoss  to  a  gooseberry, 
that  you  don't  know  anything  about  it." 

"  I  will  bet  you  a  whole  herd  of  M  \istang  ponies  to  one 
kiss,  Miss  Mollie,  that  I  do  know  all  about  it." 

"  Done  !  " 

"  Is  it  a  bet  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it's  a  bet.  Here's  the  stakes.  Put  up  your  Mus 
tang  ponies." 

"  The  Mustangs  are  on  the  plains  of  Arizona  ;  you  must 
trust  me." 

"  I  will  trust  you.     Now  come,  what  is  it  ?  " 

The  artist  began  a  little  thoughtfully,  and  quite  slowly, 
for  he  felt  more  than  half  serious  over  this  announcement, 
which  in  her  happiness  she  had  made  without  knowing  it, 
and  said : 


354  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  You  are  engaged  to  be  married  to  Count  Paolini." 

"  There  !  take  the  bet." 

She  reached  forward  her  girlish  face,  and  the  man  kissed 
his  romping,  sometime  sister,  and  then  said,  more  earnestly 
than  was  his  custom  when  speaking  to  this  half  child : 

"  Mollie !  " 

"  Marietta  ?  " 

"  This  is  a  very  serious  business." 

"  Oh  ain't  it,  though  !  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Murietta,  I 
cried  and  cried  and  cried  for  half  an  hour;  and  then  mother, 
she  cried  and  cried  ;  and  even  old  papa,  the  good  old 
governor,  he  cried  too  !  Oh,  it's  awful  serious,  ain't  it?  I 
declare  it  makes  me  feel  real  shaky."  And  here  she  stopped, 
reached  into  her  pocket  and  drew  forth  another  handful  of 
candies. 

"  You  know,  Mollie,"  said  the  artist  taking  a  handful  of 
proffered  candies,  and  dropping  them  down  among  the  flowers 
by  the  wall,  "  you  know  I  promised  to  take  you  to  my  little 
palace  on  the  Tarpeian  Rock." 

"  Yes  ;  and  like  all  the  men,  you  forgot  all  about  it,  and 
never  did  it." 

"  No  ;  but  I  have  come  for  you  this  morning.     Can  you 

go?" 

"  Go  ?  Oh  won't  it  be  jolly  !  But  then,"  and  her  manner 
took  on  a  mock  gravity  which  she  really  meant  to  be  real, 
"  but  then,  you  know,  mamma  must  go  too,  for  the  Count  is 
awful  particular.  You  know  the  Count  says  we  American 
girls  are  all  too  fast  and  loose,  and  all  that,  and  are  liable  to 
get  ourselves  talked  about ;  and  now  that  I  am  engaged,  you 
know,  I  must  be  particular,  if  only  to  please  him. 

"  Well  now,  my  good  little  Mollie,  will  you  do  one  thing 
first  to  please  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  a  dozen." 

"  No,  only  this  one  thing." 

*'  Well,  what  is  it  ?     Come,  let's  get  it  done  and  be  off, 


The  Calif ornian  Girl.  355 

for  ain't  it  just  the  bulliest  weather  you  ever  saw  to  be 
out?" 

"  Well,  Mollie,  this  is  it.  Don't  tell  the  Count  where  you 
are  going.  We  will  go  to  the  Capuchin  monks — tell  him 
that  if  you  like — after  that  we  will  take  in  the  Tarpeiau. 
Rock." 

"  Right ;  mum's  the  motto,"  and  here  Mollie  laid  her  finger 
on  her  pouting  lips,  and  reaching  down  for  another  handful 
of  sweets,  she  led  into  the  parlor. 

Mrs.  Wopsus  burst  into  tears,  as  usual,  and  the  General 
came  forward  quoting  some  snatches  of  poetry,  which  showed 
that  his  mind  was  not  on  railroads,  or  anything  of  the  kind, 
that  day  at  least. 

Paolini  turned  pale.  Yet  he  recovered  himself  in  an 
instant,  and  in  the  softest  and  sweetest  voice,  so  well  modu 
lated  that,  in  the  sweet  Italian  tongue,  it  was  music  in  itself, 
he  passed  the  compliments  of  the  day  as  he  came  up  and 
reached  his  hand,  for  he  was  standing  all  ready,  as  if  waiting 
to  go. 

In  a  moment  he  was  talking  over  the  ordinary  topics  of 
the  day,  and  showed  no  concern  at  all,  whatever  he  may  have 
felt.  And  perhaps  after  the  first  flush  of  sudden  apprehen 
sion,  he  felt  none,  but  leaned  steadily  upon  fortune  with  all 
the  confidence  of  youth  and  inexperience,  and  left  all  to  the 
fates  and  his  leaders,  who  had  this  matter  in.  hand.  He 
tapped  his  sword  hilt  with  his  gloved  fingers,  dvisted  the  least 
bit  of  down  off  his  sleeve,  and  lifting  his  cap  after  one  or  two 
low  soft  sweet  speeches  to  Mollie,  he  passed  out,  promising  to 
return  in  the  evening. 

In  a  few  minutes  more,  Murietta,  Mrs.  Wopsus  and  Mollie 
left  the  old  General  on  his  shaded  balcony  with  his  papers, 
and  taking  the  carriage  at  the  door,  were  on  their  way  to  the 
strange  and  gloomy  den  known  as  the  monastery  of  the 
Capuchin  monks. 

"It  was  a  fearful  place  to  take  a  young  girl  just  contem- 


356  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

plating  her  near  wedding-day,  and  yet,  for  the  purposes  of 
Murietta,  was  perhaps  the  best  in  all  the  world. 

On  their  way  they  picked  up  the  good-natured  Carlton, 
who  was  a  great  favourite  with  Mrs.  Wopsus,  and  in  fact 
with  all  the  family. 

Under  some  trees,  in  a  little  square  that  opens  on  to  the 
broad,  desolate  plaza  of  Barbarini,  with  its  one  hideous  figure 
blowing  a  fountain  in  the  centre,  then  under  an  arch,  then 
up  a  wide  court,  and  then,  pulling  a  bell  in  a  low  wall  to  the 
left,  they  found  themselves  at  the  door  of  the  Capuchins. 

Very  dark,  and  very  damp  and  deathlike.  Mushrooms 
grow  here ;  and,  what  is  very  strange  and  fearful  to  tell,  these 
mushrooms  that  grow  out  of  these  bones  and  half  rotten  men 
are,  it  is  said,  sometimes  extremely  like  a  death's  head. 

Here  were  lamps  and  dim  lights,  just  light  enough  to  see 
the  dead  men  hanging  up  around  the  walls  only  half  dried,  as 
if  the  place  had  been  a  sort  of  Cincinnati  smoke-house  for 
cui'ing  hams  and  whole  hogs. 

The  monk  who  opened  this  was  a  brown  monk,  in  a  brown 
gown  and  brown  sandals.  He  kept  coughing  all  the  time  ; 
he  was  only  skin  and  bone.  He  kept  coughing  and  barking 
over  his  kennel  of  bones  as  if  he  had  been  a  kind  of  watcli- 
dog.  Poor  devil  !  what  a  desolate  life  was  his  ! 

He  looked  as  if  he  had  unhooked  himself  from  a  place  on 
the  wall  alongside  of  another  fellow  who  hung  up  there,  all 
skin  and  bone,  with  his  hair  and  beard  hanging  loose  about 
his  face,  and  his  toes  and  finger-bones  hanging  in  strings 
down  there,  as  if  they  were  a  sort  of  ornament  to  him,  like 
an  Indian's  beads. 

Now  and  then  this  poor  lean  monk,  with  a  brown  beard 
and  a  brown  gown  and  a  consumptive  cough,  would  look 
back  and  up  at  the  other  fellow  hanging  there,  and  would  look 
as  if  he  was  very  tired,  and  would  like  to  hang  himself  up  there, 
and  stay  there  all  the  time,  and  never  come  down  any  more. 
He  looked  as  if  he  wanted  to  quit  telling  strangers  about 


The  Calif  or  nian   Girl.  357 

whoso  bones  this  sunflower  was  made  of,  and  how  many  thigh 
bones  it  took  to  build  this  monk's  monument  sleeping  there 
in  the  dust  brought  from  Jerusalem,  or  just  how  many  monks 
had  to  die  and  have  their  back-bones  wired  together,  in  order 
to  make  this  beautiful  ornament  now  suspended  from  the 
low  ceiling  and  doing  service  as  a  chandelier. 

"  I  want  some  of  this  dirt  from  Jerusalem,"  said  Carlton. 
"  Will  you  not,  good  father,  let  me  have  just  one  little  pinch 
of  this  dirt  from  Jerusalem  ?  " 

"  Impossible  !  "  cough,  cough,  cough. 

Then  the  little  bell  rang  again,  and  the  monk  went  to  the 
door,  yet  all  the  time  kept  looking  back  over  his  shoulder 
and  barking  like  a  dog. 

There  was  a  commotion  at  the  door,  and  a  noisy  crowd 
poured  in-  and  began  to  deluge  the  monk  with  questions. 

"  Good  gracious!  was  he  a  full-grown  man?  " 

"  A  full-grown  man,  madam.  You  see  he  was  bearded 
like  a  prophet,'4  coughed  the  skin-aud-borie  monk  who  was 
not  hanging  on  a  hook  on  the  wall,  as  he  looked  up  at  and 
alluded  to  the  skin-and-bone  monk  who  was  hanging  up  on  a 
hook  against  the  wall. 

Then  the  Special  Correspondent  took  out  a  carpenter's  rule, 
and  stepping  across  and  straddling  over  some  new  graves, 
she  carefully  measured  the  length  of  the  lean  skin-and-boue 
monk  on  the  wall ;  and,  still  standing  there,  straddling  over  a 
grave,  she  took  out  note-book  and  pencil  and  wrote  very 
rapidly  for  some  time. 

"  Only  three  feet  long !  "  she  said  to  herself  as  she  shut 
the  note-book  and  again  strode  over  the  new  graves,  and 
came  forth  arid  joined  our  party  in  the  little  vault  at  the  feet 
of  the  graves,  and  under  the  curious  lines  and  strange  ar 
rangements  of  bones  and  skulls  about  the  walls. 

"  There  is  here  somewhere,  says  tradition — "  A  tall  man, 
in  black  threadbare  clothes,  set  his  umbrella  down,  and  bent 
himself  into  a  new  moon.  "  There  is  somewhere  here,"  he 


358  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

said,  facing  the  Special  Correspondent,  who  stood  before  him 
all  attention,  "  a  bone  of  Saint  Francis,  and  I  would  give 
more  to  know  where  that  bone  is,"  and  here  he  shot  upright 
again,  and  tall  as  a  cypress,  "  I  would  give  more,  I  say,  to 
know  just  where  to  put  my  hand  on  that  bone  than  to  be  at 
the  head  of  all  the  Missions  of  Italy." 

The  missionary  stooped  as  he  finished  this  speech,  and  got 
hold  of  a  skull  on  the  top  of  a  heap  of  skulls  hard  by,  and 
tried  to  get  it  into  his  pocket  or  under  his  coat,  but  to  his 
great  disgust  found  that  it  was  fastened  there  by  a  wire,  just 
as  are  grinding-stones  or  other  articles  fastened  at  the  doors  of 
shops  where  people  are  liable  to  pick  up  little  things  as  they 
pass. 

The  monk  turned  to  look  at  the  missionary  as  he  heard 
the  rattling  of  dry  bones,  and  began  to  cough,  as  a  dog  would 
bark  to  warn  off  thieves,  and  let  it  be  known  at  least  that  there 
was  someone  on  watch. 

Then  Carlton,  who  had  been  refused  a  pinch  of  earth  from 
Jerusalem,  leaned  over  the  little  frame  at  the  foot  of  one  of 
the  graves,  and  taking  a  bit  between  his  fingers,  hastily  arose. 
But  the  eyes  of  the  monk  were  on  him,  and  the  brown  skin- 
and-bone  creature  came  forward  and  stood  barking  like  a 
very  weak  but  very  faithful  dog  at  this  sacrilegious  piracy  of 
unconsidered  trifles. 

Carlton  began  slowly  and  carelessly  to  roll  his  cigarette.  In 
this  cigarette  was  the  sacred  earth.  The  monk's  little  black 
eyes  glistened.  He  had  his  suspicions,  but  was  not  certain 
that  he  was  right.  Would  this  Carlton  go  on  with  that 
cigarette — would  he  roll  it  up,  turn  down  the  end  of  it  ? 
Would  he  then  dare  place  the  sacred  dust — still  damp  and 
reeking  with  dead  men's  flesh — between  his  teeth  ? 

The  monk's  eyes  glistened,  and  his  outstretched  hand 
trembled  like  a  leaf  in  the  wind. 

Would  he  go  011  and  finish  the  cigarette,  and  put  the  dust 
between  his  teeth  ? 


The  Calif  or  nian   Girl.  359 

Carlton,  too,  was  more  than  nervous,  he  was  pale  ;  but  he 
did  not  hesitate.  His  hands  trembled  and  rattled  the  paper, 
as  he  rolled  it  tight  and  smoothly,  and  then  he  slowly  fas 
tened  down  one  end,  after  the  manner  of  the  Mexican  when 
smoking  a  cigarette,  and  then  slowly  raised  it  up  and  deliber 
ately  set  it  between  his  teeth. 

The  monk  was  satisfied  ;  or  at  least  he  felt  that,  whether 
this  man  was  guilty  or  not,  he  was  too  audacious  to  interfere 
with  ;  and,  leaving  a  pile  of  bones  rather  to  the  right,  he  has 
tened  around  in  that  direction  and  began  to  look  furtively  at 
the  missionary,  who  had  found  these  goods  also  wired  to  the 
shop  and  impossible  to  purloin. 

Mrs.  Wopsus  was  all  the  time  in  tears.  Mollie  did  not 
say  one  word,  but  kept  all  the  time  back  in  the  dark  and  half 
hidden  out  of  sight.  Murietta  sought  her  out  at  last,  for  he 
feared  this  unearthly  sight  might  have  an  unpleasant  influence 
on  her  young  spirits. 

She  was  leaning  up  against  the  damp  wall  eating  a  bun 
and  trying  to  count  by  the  dim  grating  light  the  number  of 
bones  that  there  were  in  an  exquisite  figure  worked  on  the 
ceiling  just  over  her  head. 

Carlton  seemed  to  be  getting  cold  and  chilly  and  nervous. 
The  brown  monk  kept  looking  at  him,  too,  as  a  dog  will  look 
and  growl  at  a  man  he  has  seen  doing  some  crime,  and  he 
wanted  to  go  at  once. 

The  monk  went  down  to  where  the  Special  Correspondent 
was  trying  to  measure  the  size  of  a  dead  monk's  skull,  and 
kindly  pretended  to  help  her  in  her  enterprise ;  but  it  was 
observed  that  as  soon  as  he  got  the  party  away  he  fell  to 
counting  his  skulls  ;  and,  looking  for  this  one  and  that,  as  a 
shoddy  will  count  his  spoons  after  a  dinner  to  the  Press  or 
some  great  politician. 

A  t  last  the  party  filed  out  through  the  narrow  door  of 
death  into  the  open  day,  and  once  more  breathed  the  open 
air,  as  the  little  monk  stood  by,  taking  his  toll,  as  if  they 


'360  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

were  passing  orer  a  bridge  from  one  world  to  the  other,  and 
barking  at  the  party  all  the  time  as  if  to  warn  them  off  the 
premises. 

What  possible  sermon  was  this  charnel-house  to  preach  ? 
What  lesson  can  these  fantastic  figures  teach  ?  Those  dead 
men  stand  grinning  at  death  ! 

What  possible  good  can  there  be  in  the  existence  of  this 
terrible  place,  except  to  teach  men  to  thank  God  for  the 
sunlight  when  they  once  more  behold  it. 


CHAPTER  XLIL 


IX    THE    PALACE    OF    A 
PEINCE. 

/  • 

E  are  now  going  to  visit 
the  palace  of  a  prince," 
said  Murietta,  as  he  took 
his  seat,  and  the  carriage 
passed  under  the  arch  and 
out  into  the  street. 

Mollie  looked  up,  for 
she  knew  who  was  addres 
sing  her. 

"  And  oh,  won't  that  be 
jolly  !  Pictures  as  old  as  St.  Luke,  old 
swords  and  lances  on  the  wall,  helmets 
hanging  all  around,  great  armor,  men 
of  steel  standing  in  every  corner.  Oh, 
I  know  just  what  it's  like.  Bet  your 
life  I  know  all  about  it.  I've  read  all 
the  books  and  novels  that  ever  was,  and — " 
.  "  Nay,  but  this  is  nothing  of  that  sort,  Miss  Mollie," 
broke  in  Murietta,  for  he  wanted  to  prepare  her  mind  for 
something  unpleasant,  instead  of  allowing  it  to  run  riot  in 
such  imaginings.  "  No,  nothing  of  that  sort  at  all."  And 
the  artist  shook  his  head  gravely. 

"  Well,  there  is  at  least  a  secret  staircase  and  a  skeleton 
16 


362  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

or  two,  and  some  pretty  story  about  a  cruel  old  father  and  a 
faithful  maiden  and  a  brave  knight." 

"  Like  Paolini,  for  instance,"  chimed  in  Carlton. 

"  I  protest,"  \irged  Murietta,  once  more  and  very  gravely ; 
"  this  house  where  I  live,  and  this  old  Prince  lives,  and  some 
others  whom  you  happen  to  know,  is  nothing  of  the  sort.  It 
is  a  rotten  tumble-down  old  barracks,  or-  any  thing  you  choose 
to  call  it  that  is  vile,  and  we  who  live  there  are  beggars." 

"  Beggars  !  "  cried  Mollie,  catching  her  breath. 

"  Yes,  beggars.  That  is,  we  are  not  all  beggars  j  some  of 
us  are  only  thieves  and  robbers  and  assassins." 

Mollie's  eyes  were  wide  with  wonder,  as  she  sat  gazing  at 
the  earnest  and  immovable  face  of  the  artist. 

"  But  speak  !  you  look  as  if  you  meant  it !  " 

"  I  mean  it ;  every  word  of  it."  Then  leaning  over  to 
wards  the  half-frightened,  honest-hearted  girl,  he  said,  "  Mol 
lie,  you  have  often  asked  to  see  my  home  in  Home." 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  girl. 

"  I  promised  you  that  pleasure,  or  whatever  you  may  be 
polite  enough  to  call  it,  oftentime." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  I  also  once  said  to  you  that  Prince  Trawaska  was  a  vil 
lain  ! " 

"  You  did,  and  he  is  the  gentlest  of  men.  Why,  he  is  the 
bosom  friend  of  Count  Paolini  !  " 

"  One  moment.  Here  we  are.  Here  we  get  out,  climb 
these  broken  steps,  and  then  up  a  narrow  court,  and  then  up 
a  narrower  stair,  and  we  are  in  the  palace  of  the  old  Prince, 
where  I  and  Prince  Trawaska  and  Count  Paolini,  singularly 
enough,  have  been  thrown  together.  And  Mollie,  listen." 

The  girl  looked  eagerly  in  his  face  as  the  carriage  stopped, 
and  the  footman  opened  the  door,  and  the  artist  went  on  hur 
riedly,  "Were  you  not  a  Californian,  and  the  full-hearted 
whole-souled  little  creature  that  you  are,  I  would  not  waste 
my  time  and  risk  being  run  through  for  this.  Nay,  you  are 


In  the  Palace  of  a  Prince.  363 

as  brave  as  you  are  honest.  I  would  not  dare  bring  anyone 
in  all  the  world  but  you  face  to  face  with  the  truth,  as  I 
shall  to-day  !  " 

The  others  had  descended  and  were  waiting  for  Muriettato 
lead  up  the  broken  steps. 

"  Why  this  would  make  a  pretty  good  pasture  for  cattle," 
said  Mrs.  Wopsus,  as  they  went  up  the  broken  steps  and 
brushed  the  long  strong  grass  that  was  growing  up  between 
the  cracks  in  the  rocks  and  out  of  the  crevices. 

Carlton,  light-hearted  and  careless  as  ever,  tapped  a  little 
curly-headed  boy  on  his  head,  as  he  politely  lifted  his  cap 
with  its  crown  and  gold  band,  which  showed  he  belonged  to 
the  newly-established  schools  of  Rome,  and  the  party  began, 
to  ascend  the  narrow,  dirty  steps. 

"  How  dark  it  is  !  said  Mollie. 

"  Perhaps  this  is  the  secret  staircase  of  the  palace  where  we 
are  to  find  the  skeletons,"  said  Carlton,  as  they  still  climbed 
and  climbed,  one  after  the  other,  in  Indian  file. 

"  What  a  smell  of  onions!"  said  Mrs.  Wopsus  behind  her 
handkerchief,  as  she  panted  and  caught  her  breath  at  every 
step. 

At  last  they  stopped  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  breathed 
the  fresh  air,  for  here  was  an  open  window  looking  out 
towards  St.  Peter's. 

"  Well,  it's  not  so  dreadful  bad,  after  all,"  said  Mollie,  as 
she  leaned  against  the  wall  and  looked  out  and  over  the  Tiber 
towards  St.  Peter's. 

Murietta  threw  back  his  cloak,  and  fumbled  a  moment  in 
his  pocket.  Then  the  door  flew  open,  or  rather  groaned  open ; 
and,  stepping  back,  he  beckoned  his  friends  to  enter.  They 
went  in,  headed  by  Mollie,  and  passed  on  down  the  narrow 
hall  in  single  file. 

"  First  door  to  the  right,"  calle'd  out  the  artist.  The  door 
stood  ajar,  and  Mollie  peeped  in. 

"  No  thank  you,  I  will  stop  here  and  take  a  peep  at  St. 


364  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

Peter's."  So  saying,  she  turned  to  an  open  window  and 
leaned  over  and  looked  out  and  away  to  the  north.  A 
little  yellow  bird  was  hopping  against  the  wall  in  its  wire 
cage,  and  the  merry  girl  reached  in  her  pocket,  drew  forth  a 
handful  of  sweets,  and  began  to  feed  the  bird,  while  the  party 
entered  and  sat  down  in  the  little  parlor  and  studio  of  the 
artist,  with  its  single  picture. 

Carl  ton  saw  this  picture,  cried  "  By  Jove  !  "  and  then  sat 
down  before  it  in  silence,  and  sat  and  looked  as  if  he  would 
continue  so  for  hours,  without  once  lifting  his  eyes  from  the 
great,  moving  and  wonderful  face  before  him. 

Mrs.  Wopsus  occupied  herself  in  looking  out  from  the 
studio  window  to  the  south,  and  watching  the  innumerable 
cats  along  the  top  of  the  walls. 

A  black-eyed  countess  in  a  cloud  of  hair  came  timidly  in. 

"  Is  the  Prince,  your  father,  in  ?  asked  Murietta. 

"  Oh  yes,  he  is  always  in  at  this  hour  ;  the  dear  good  old 
father,  he  is  always  in  at  this  hour  for  his  lunch." 

"  Pray  don't  disturb  him  now ;  but  when  he  has  quite 
finished  his  lunch  let  him  know  that  I  am  here  with  some 
friends  who  would  be  glad  to  see  him.  "  The  Countess 
withdrew,  and  Murietta  went  up  to  where  Mollie  stood 
whistling  and  feeding  the  little  yellow  bird. 

"  Have  a  goodie  ?  " 

"No  thanks;  no  candies  for  me,  this  morning,  my  little 
school-girl." 

"  My  little  school-girl  !  My  little  school-girl !  Now  look 
here,  Mr.  Murietta,  I'm  sever  teen  come  next  May  ;  I'm  not 
a  school-girl,  I've  finished.  Bet  your  life  I'm  done.  And, 
Mr.  Murietta,  I'm  not  going  back  to  school  any  more.  Johnny 
must  go  back,  because  Johnny's  a  boy,  and  is  not  so  old  even 
as  I  am,  but  I — not  for  Joseph  !" 

And  here  she  danced  and  spun  about,  and  whistled  at  the 
bird,  and  then  wound  up  by  once  more  reaching  out  her  hand 
to  the  artist  and  asking  him  if  he  would  "  have  a  goodie." 


In  the  Palace  of  a  Prince.  365 

He  shook  his  head.  "And  so  you  will  not  go  back  to 
school  any  more  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  won't.  Why,  do  you  know,  Mr.  Murietta," 
and  here  she  looked  about  her;  and  then,  reaching  her  head, 
and  letting  her  voice  fall,  "  do  you  know  I've  seven  offers  of 
marriage  !  Seven !  Seven  !  And  I  go  back  to  school !  Ha, 
ha!  Now  I  like  that.  Why,  you  know  I  am  engaged  1" 

"  But  you  will  not  marry  Paolini  ?  " 

"  Then  I  will  die  an  old  maid.  I  will  enter  a  convent,  or 
a  what-do-you-call-it  —  a  nunnery,  a  monkery — anything, 
everything.  No  I  will  drown  myself,  Murietta,  if  I  do  not 
marry  Count  Paolini." 

Again  the  light-hearted  girl  left  the  little  bird  to  hop  about 
on  his  wires,  and  again  she  spun  around  and  danced  till  tears 
came  into  her  eyes,  and  then  she  came  back  and  looked  at  the 
little  yellow  bird  bouncing  around  on  his  wires,  and  laughed. 
There  had  nearly  been  an  April  shower  in  the  full  spring 
time  of  this  girl's  life,  but  it  blew  over  in  an  instant,  and  now 
the  sun  was  shining  brighter  than  before.  Murietta  went 
close  up  to  the  girl  as  she  began  again  to  feed  the  little  yel 
low  bird,  as  he  fluttered  about  on  his  wires. 

"  What  in  the  world  makes  you  look  so  serious  ?  "  exclaimed 
Mollie,  as  she  stopped  her  hand  half  way  to  the  cage  with  a 
bit  of  candy. 

"It  is  nothing,  Mollie,"  he  said,  assuming  a  careless  air, 
you  know  I  told  you  they  were  all  either  beggars  or  thieves 
in  this  palace." 

"  Well,  beggars  you  might  be  from  the  looks  of  things ;  but 
thieves  and  robbers,  I  reckon  hardly." 

"  Yes,"  said  Murietta  emphatically,  "  Prince  Trawaska  is 
a  robber.  And  then  there  is  Guiseppe,  he  is  only  a  thief  and 
an  assassin  ;  and  then  there  is  the  Prince  of  this  palace,  and 
then  myself,  only  we  are  only  gentle  beggars,  while  Count 
Paolini  is  perhaps  by  turns  all  three  !  " 

The  little  maiden  dropped  the  nut  which  she  held  halfway 


366  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

to  the  fluttering  little  yellow  habitant  of  the  wire  house,  and 
opened  her  soft  and  earnest  eyes  wider  than  ever  before. 

"  I  do  not  trifle,  Mollie.  I  have  brought  you  here  to  see 
for  yourself.  First  see  for  yourself,  and  then  act  for  yourself. 
Your  good  sense  will  not  fail  you.  You  have  been  very 
ready  to  believe  all  that  these  strangers  and  men  of  another 
land  and  another  religion  have  had  to  say.  They  were  inter 
ested.  I  have  no  interest  but  to  serve  you,  and  save  an 
honest  and  happy  girl  from  crime  and  misery.  It  is  because 
you  are  so  good  and  so  trustful,  and  so  ready  and  willing  to 
believe  anything  that  you  must  now  suffer.  And  yet  it  is 
only  because  you  have  these  qualities  that  I  dare  be  so  frank 
and  plain  with  you.  Will  you  trust  me  ?  " 

The  girl  put  out  her  hand  in.  a  helpless  sort  of  a  manner, 
and  still  stared  at  the  artist.  Her  mind  was  floundering 
beyond  its  depth. 

"  Delighted,  Senor,  and  doubly  honored  ! "  The  old 
prince  came  shuffling  forth,  and  bowing  almost  to  the  floor  as 
he  said  this.  "  And  will  the  lady  do  me  the  honor  to  remem 
ber  the  old  Prince  she  saw  in  the  ancient  Theatre  of  Marcellus 
among  his  antiquities?  " 

Mollie  reached  her  hand  and  smiled  at  the  humility  of  the 
old  Prince,  who  now  stood  before  her  uncovered. 

"  And  you  still  have  a  store  of  antiquities  on  hand  ?  " 

"  Oh  most  fortunate,  fair  lady,  most  fortunate  for  me  and 
for  your  noble  and  most  generous  father,  I  have  just  received 
a  small .  ship-load  from  Egypt,  and  the  Holy  Land,  and  else 
where.  Oh,  I  have  now  enough  to  flood  all  America,  if  I 
could  only  find  the  buyers.  If  I  could  only  find  the  buyers," 
mused  the  old  man,  half  to  himself,  "  if  I  could  only  find  the 
buyers,  then  might  my  daughters  all  have  a  dowry,  and  the 
crooked  be  made  straight." 

"  Then  you  have  daughters,"  said  Mollie,  once  looking  up, 
for  she  had  again  began  to  feed  the  yellow  little  captive  in 
the  wire  house. 


In  the  Palace  of  a  Prince.  367 

"  Daughters  !  "  The  old  man's  face  lighted  tip  with  parental 
pride ;  and  he  looked  at  Murietta  as  if  he  wished  him  to  con 
firm  his  story,  and  tell  the  young  lady  all  about  them,  while  he 
stood  there  bowing  very  humbly,  and  all  the  time  rubbing  his 
hands,  as  if  to  wash  them  free  from  the  stains  of  acids  and 
colors  used  in  making  his  antiquities. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  and  most  beautiful  and  interesting  children 
they  are  too,"  said  the  artist ;  and  he  passed  into  his  parlor 
and  pulled  the  bell. 

A  beautiful  young  lady  came,  as  if  borne  in  a  cloud  of  hair. 
Murietta  presented  his  young  friend,  and  then  the  two  began 
to  feed  the  little  yellow  prisoner  together,  as  they  talked  in  a 
friendly  fashion  of  their  favorite  birds. 

''  I  wonder  if  this  is  the  wife  of  Count  Paolini,"  thought 
Murietta ;  and  then,  remembering  how  that  lady  always 
blushed  and  held  her  head  in  a  timid  and  tender  fashion,  he 
said, — 

"  And  is  the  Count  Paolini  well  ?  " 

"  He  is  well,  I  believe ;  but  I  doubt  if  he  has  yet  risen." 
The  lady  laughed,  but  did  not  blush. 

The  artist  stepped  again  into  his  parlor,  and  again  pulled 
the  bell. 

Then  another  beautiful  lady  entered,  noiselessly  and  airy, 
as  if  she  too  moved  in  a  cloud. 

The  artist  presented  his  friend,  and  Mollie  handed  her  a 
handful  of  candies  at  once,  and  then  all  three  fell  to  feeding 
the  little  yellow  prisoner. 

"  Is  the  Count  Paolini  fond  of  birds  ?  "  asked  the  artist, 
with  well-disguised  concern. 

"  Oh,  very  fond  of  birds,"  answered  the  second  lady  in  the 
cloud,  as  she  looked  up  from  feeding  the  little  favorite. 
But  she  did  not  blush. 

Again  the  artist  stepped  to  the  bell.  The  door  opened, 
another  dark  and  airy  cloud,  with  a  beautiful  face  half  hidden 
away,  came  drifting  dreamily  through  the  door. 


368  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

Murietta  stepped  back  to  give  her  room ;  and  she,  too,  in  a 
little  time  had  passed  through  the  ceremony  of  an  introduc 
tion,  and  had  been  presented  with  a  handful  of  candies,  and 
now  was  also  feeding  the  little  yellow  favorite. 

<(  The  Count  Paolini  is  late  this  morning,"  began  the  artist. 

The  lady  dropped  the  bit  of  candy  behind  the  bars,  and 
blushed  to  her  glorious  hair,  and  hid  her  face  behind  her  sis 
ter. 

"  Your  husband,"  began  the  artist  in  a  cold,  clear  voice, 
"your  husband,  the  Count  Paolini,  rises  late,  my  lady." 

"  True,  he  is  late,  and — but  what — but  what  is  the  matter 
with  the  beautiful  Inglese  ?  " 

Mollie  had  dropped  her  handful  of  sweets  on  the  floor,  and 
pale  and  startled,  stood  looking  at  Murietta. 

The  artist  turned  to  the  old  Prince,  who  again  began  to  bow 
when  he  saw  that  he  was  about  to  be  spoken  to,  and  in  a 
clear,  deliberate  voice  began  :  "  I  happen  to  know  your  son, 
the  Count  Paolini,  better  than  you  suppose  ;  and  so  does  this 
lady  know  him  ;  and  we  desire  to  see  him." 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure.  With  the  greatest  pleasure. 
You  honor  him,  you  honor  us."  And  the  old  Prince  shuf 
fled  up  the  hall  and  out  of  the  door,  and  in  a  moment  was 
knocking  at  the  door  of  the  Count  Paolini  and  the  Prince 
Trawaska. 

Singular  as  it  may  seem,  Mollie  in  a  moment  had  recovered 
her  self-possession,  and  reaching  in  her  pocket  for  a  handful  of 
candies,  she  now  stood  leaning  out  of  the  window  with  the 
other  ladies  and  whistling  at  the  little  yellow  captive  in  the 
wire  prison.  The  little  Californian  maiden  was  utterly  hid 
den  by  the  many  dark  clouds  that  hung  over  and  about  her. 
Yet  the  sky  seemed  clearing  up  again.  The  April  shower  of 
tears  was  passing  over.  The  sun  and  sunshine  of  May  was 
once  more  filling  her  heart. 

The  Count  Paolini  came  forward  at  the  call  of  his  father- 
in-law  with  a  great  deal  of  confidence.  There  was  a  little 


In  the  Palace  of  a  Prince.  369 

swagger  and  banter  in  his  air  as  he  came  in  in  advance 
of  the  old  Prince,  who  shuffled  on  after  him,  as  his  eyes 
fell  upon  the  artist.  But  he  did  not  flinch.  He  came 
boldly  forward,  bowed  with  that  perfect  hollow  politeness 
peculiar  only  to  refined  scoundrels,  and  waited  for  Murietta's 
reply. 

Soon  the  dark  ladies,  in  their  storms  of  hair,  tiirned  from 
the  bird  to  the  Count,  for  they  perhaps  knew  his  step,  or  what 
is  more  likely  they  felt  his  presence,  as  we  often  feel  the  pres 
ence  of  our  friends  long  before  either  seeing  or  hearing  them. 

Then,  as  the  ladies  turned  and  the  clouds  cleared  away, 
the  eyes  of  the  Count  fell  upon  the  form  of  Mollie  as  she 
leaned  from  the  window  and  whistled  still  at  the  yellow  little 
flutterer. 

The  artist  lifted  his  finger  into  the  face  of  the  Count,  and 
said  almost  savagely  : 

"  That  is  all  I  have  to  say,  Count  Paolini,  and  this  is  all  I 
have  to  do." 

Mollie  sprang  back  from  the  window,  and  now  stood  look 
ing  over  the  shoulder  of  one  of  the  ladies  right  into  the  face 
of  the  Count. 

The  artist  continued :  "  I  have  nothing  further  to  do  or 
say.  I  bring  you  all  together  here — the  husband  and  the 
wife,  and  the  promised  wife, — the  little  confiding  school-girl 
that  a  hundred  base  Italians  have  been  trying  half  a  year  to 
entrap.  I  only  wish  you  all  to  know  the  truth,  and  then  to 
do  precisely  as  you  please." 

"  Come  let  us  go,  let  us  go  ;  where  is  my  mother  ?  Let  us 
go  away,  I  shall  go  wild."  Mollie  had  been  standing  still  all 
the  time.  Her  hand  was  full  of  sweets. 

She  lifted  them  up,  looked  at  them,  and  then  threw  them 
through  the  window. 

What  if,  in  that  moment  standing  there,  this  young  woman, 
this  girl,  had  crossed  the  line  that  lies  somewhere  between 
the  girl  and  the  woman  ? 


370  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  And  that  is  your  hxisband  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  touch  of 
tenderness,  to  the  Countess  at  her  side. 

"  Yes,  lady,  yes.  But  oh,  do  not  blame  him  too  much.  It 
is  so,  so  hard.  You  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  fight  day  by 
day,  day  by  day,  with  nothing  to  fight  with;  to  go  hungry  in 
order  that  you  may  hold  your  place  in  the  world,  the  place 
you  are  born  to,  and  to  appear  respectable.  Oh,  you  have 
fortune,  you  people  of  the  New  World,  and  you  know  not 
what  we  have  to  endure  !  " 

Mollie  forgot  herself  in  a  moment.  The  emotion,  the 
beautiful  sorrow  of  this  woman  touched  her  heart. 

The  least  selfish  of  living  women,  she  threw  her  arms  aboxit 
the  neck  of  the  dark  Countess,  kissed  her,  called  her  sister, 
and  telling  her  not  to  weep,  turned  suddenly  to  the  old 
Prince,  as  if  inspired  with  a  new  thought,  and  said, 

"  Get  your  antiquities  together  for  to-morrow.  Be  there 
early.  I  shall  be  there,  and  I  shall  bring  my  California!! 
friends.  Now  come  !  "  And  without  one  word  to  Paolini, 
who  stood  as  if  struck  dumb,  she  led  down  the  narrow  step, 
and  left  the  artist  to  bring  her  mother  and  Carlton ;  and  in  a 
little  time  they  were  back  to  the  Hotel  Ville  as  if  nothing  had 
happened. 


CHAPTER  XLIIT. 


OLD      ANTIQUITIES. 


OME   here,  Carlton; 
come     here,      Muri- 
etta."     Mollie   came 
bounding    by,     after 
kissing  the  old  Gen 
eral,  who  was  all  the 
time     running      his 
mind  down  the  iron 
grooves    of  his  rail 
roads,  to  the  neglect 
of  everything  else,  and  took  the  two 
men  with  her  on  to  the  moonlit  bal 
cony. 

a  Now,  look   here,"   she   said,   in  some 
thing  of  a  flurry,  as  she  dived  her  hand 
]]/|\    down  into  her  pockets,  drew  up  a  handful 
of  sweets,   looked  at   them  a  second,  and 
then  sent  them  through  the  air:  "  I've  got 
a  little  game,  and  you're  to  help  me." 
"  Well,  Mollie,  but  what  is  it  ?  " 
"  None  of  your  business ;  won't  you  help  me  ?  " 
"  Certainly,    I   will  help  you.     We   both   will    help  you. 


372  The  One  Fair  Wontan. 

But  you  must  tell  us  what  it  is,  or  we  will  not  know  what  to 
do/' 

"  Well,  I  will  tell  you  what  to  do  and  how  to  do  it.  You 
know  Jones  ?  " 

"Yes,"  answered  Marietta. 

"And  you  know  McCreavy,  the  man  who  used  to  be  head 
porter  in  the  Oriental  Hotel,  in  San  Francisco  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Carlton,  "  I  know  him  very  well.  He's  a 
millionaire,  and  a  wonderfully  conceited  Irishman  he  is,  too ; 
and  a  bit  proud  for  one  who  began  life  as  a  day  labourer.' 

"  No  matter  about  how  he  began  his  life,  or  how  he  spends 
it.  His  money  is  as  good  as  any  man's,  and  I  want  him  to 
spend  his  money.  That's  all.  I  don't  want  him  to  carry 
trunks  or  wheel  dirt  on  the  railroad.  I  want  him  to  buy,  and 
I  want  them  all  to  buy." 
«  To  buy  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to  buy.  You  see,  they  all  want  little  sphinxes,  and 
Egyptian  cats,  and  copper  crocodiles,  and  brazen  serpents, 
and  tear-bottles,  and  Etruscan  coins;  and  I  know  a  place 
where  they  are  cheap  and  plenty.  I  know  where  there's 
a  whole  ship-load,  and,  bet  your  life,  I  am  going  to  buy  out 
the  whole  lot." 

"  But  I  do  not  know  anything  about  this,"  protested 
Marietta,  who  felt  that  he  had  done  enough  ;  and,  at  all 
events,  preferred  to  keep  clear  of  any  freak  of  the  charming 
and  disappointed  little  Californian. 

«  Well,  now,  you  look  here."  The  little  lady  laid  hold  of 
the  artist's  coat,  and  drew  him  and  Carlton  close  together. 
"  You  know  the  old  Prince — call  him  the  prince  of  humbugs, 
if  you  like, — who  keeps  the  stall  of  old  wares  in  the  Mar- 
cellus  ?  " 

"  Where  your  father  bought  a  supply  ?  " 
"  The  very  place.     Well,  now,  I'm  going  to  buy  out  Old 
Antiquities,  and  if  you   don't  like  this  business,  you  have 
only  to  go  to  your  friends,  and  my  friends,  and  all  mutual 


"  Old  Antiquities."  373 

friends,  who  have  plenty  of  money,  and  tell  them  that  Miss 
Mollie  Wopsiis  wants  to  see  them.    You  have  both  promised 
to  help  me,  and  now  will  you  do  this  much  to  start  on  ?  " 
The  men  both  cheerfully  agreed. 

"  Very  good ;  now  go,  and  be  sure  and  deliver  my  orders, 
and  be  sure  that  these  men  promise  to  come  to  me,  and  to 
come  at  once." 

Carlton  gave  the  young  girl  his  word,  and  passed  into  the 
parlor,  and  began  to  talk  with  the  General  and  his  wife. 
Murietta  lingered  a  time,  and  when  he  finally  and  firmly  re 
fused  to  go  with  her  on  her  speculation  in  the  old  theatre, 
next  day,  she  simply  said,  half  laughing — 

"  Very  well,  then  call  to-morrow,  at  this  time,  and  I  will 
tell  you  all  about  it." 

He  stood  a  moment,  then  passed  slowly  through  the  half- 
open  door,  to  join  the  other  party  ;  but,  looking  back  over  his 
shoulder,  saw  the  girl  weeping  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

Then,  with  that  impulsiveness  and  suddenness  of  action  that 
was  always  getting  him  into  trouble,  he  turned  back,  took 
the  child  of  nature  in  his  arms,  and  under  the  great  white 
moon,  that  wheeled  low  and  large  in  the  west,  bent  his  head 
and  kissed  her  tenderly  as  a  brother  might  kiss  a  lonely  and 
weeping  sister,  and  then,  promising  certainly  to  join  her  the 
next  day  in  her  little  enterprise,  he  led  her  into  the  parlor. 

Mr.  McCreavy  came,  as  she  expected.  "  I  have  found  the 
dearest  old  place  you  know  !  "  began  the  little  Californian 
maiden,  looking  around,  as  if  she  feared  some  one  would  get 
at  the  secret  she  was  about  to  reveal.  "  Ah,  it  is  the  dearest 
old  place  in  all  the  world  to  buy  antiquities.  And,  Mr. 
McCreavy,  knowing  how  learned  you  are,  I  want  your 
opinion." 

The  Irish  millionaire  bowed  in  profound  acknowledgment, 
and  with  an  air  that  seemed  to  say,  "  You  are  perfectly  right, 
young  woman,  else  how  could  a  day  laborer  rise  to  be  head 
porter  in  a  hotel  ?  and  then  how  could  an  Irish  head  porter 


374  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

rise  to  be  a  millionaire,  and  the  companion  of  Irish  kings 
and  Italian  princes?" 

"  Well,  as  I  was  saying,"  and  again  she  looked  around,  as 
if  she  feared  her  secret  might  escape  her,  "  I  have  found  this 
place  all  by  myself,  I  and  the  governor,  and  he  has  bought  a 
great  deal,  and  we  intend  to  buy  a  great  deal  more  to-morrow, 
and  you  see  they  will  not  last,  these  antiquities,  they  will  all 
be  gone  to-morrow  night.  And  don't  you  know,  Mr. 
McCreavy,  that  they  have  got  some  of  the  original  brazen 
serpents  that  Moses  set  upon  a  pole,  when,  he  got  into  trouble 
crossing  the  plains  ?  Well,  they  have  got  some  of  these  very 
serpents." 

The  Irishman  was  not  certain  that  he  precisely  cared  to 
have  any  serpents  in  his  house,  whether  brazen  or  what 
not,  yet  he  was  all  the  time  secretly  resolving  in  his  heart, 
that  if  the  old  railroad  king  bought  any  of  this  collec 
tion  of  antiquities,  he  too  would  have  his  share,  at  any  cost ; 
for  no  man  from  California  should  surpass  the  man  they 
were .  accustomed  to  sneer  at  as  the  porter  of  the  Oriental 
Hotel. 

"  Oh  !  here  comes  Jones  ;  now  Jones,  you  know,  is  father's 
bosom  friend,"  said  Mollie,  "  and  of  course  he,  too,  must  be 
with  us,  but  I  have  promised  father  to  let  no  one  know  a 
word  about  it  but  Californians." 

"  Good,  that  is  best ;  for,  barring  a  few  more  crosses,  and  a 
few  more  baskets  of  beads  that  have  been  blessed  by  the 
Holy  Father,  which  I  must  take  home  for  my  Irish  servant 
girls — you  know  how  exacting  the  Irish  servant  girls  are, 
and  how  much  they  always  expect ; — well,  as  I  was  saying, 
barring  a  few  crosses  and  beads,  I  know  of  nothing  I  want 
now  but  a  few  more  antiquities  of  the  far  past  middle  ages 
of  the  period  of  Moses." 

"  Well,  now,"  said  Mollie,  in  a  whisper,  and  still  looking 
around,  as  if  in  great  fear  of  listeners,  "  this  is  the  only  place 
in  Rome  where  no  foreigners  ever  go.  It  is  away  down 


"  Old  Antiquities"  375 

there  among  the  thieves  and  robbers,  and  where  they  have 
the  fevers, — and  look  here  !  " 

The  Irishman  leaned  eagerly  forward. 

"  It  is  kept  by  a  Prince  !  " 

"  No !  " 

"But  I  tell  you  it  is.  It  is  the  dingiest  and  the  dread- 
fullest  place  in  all  the  old  Theatre  of  Marcellus.  And  I  tell 
you  it  is  kept  by  an  old  Italian  prince  who  has  four  beauti 
ful  daughters,  all  countesses  in  their  own  right,  and  all  that, 
so  that  there  is  no  mistake  about  it.  But  here  I  must  see 
Jones.  You  will  not  tell  ?  " 

"  Not  a  word." 

"  And  you  will  please  not  go  too  eai'ly  in  tlie  morning. 
Meet  vis  there  at  about  twelve ;  for  you  know  the  governor 
has  not  yet  had  half  his  supply." 

"  O,  never  fear.  I  may  be  a  little  early,"  said  the  shrewd 
Irishman,  "  but  still  I  will  not  take  anything  that  your 
governor  wants.  The  General  is  too  dear  to  me  for  that." 

And  then  the  millionaire  took  his  leave,  and  went  home  de 
termined  to  be  the  first  in  the  field  next  morning,  and  show 
the  General  and  Jones  too,  that  he  really  did  understand 
antiquities,  and  prize  them  too. 

"  And  now,"  said  the  designing  little  Mollie  to  herself, 
"  I  shall  proceed  to  doctor  Mr.  Jones,"  and  so  she  did.  And 
as  the  General  dilated  on  what  he  had  bought,  and  exhibited 
his  collection  of  coins,  to  be  taken  back  to  California  and  pre 
sented  to  the  University  at  his  death,  Jones  sighed  to  think 
how  he  had  frittered  away  his  time,  and  so  had  really  no 
thing  at  all  to  take  back  with  him  of  the  Old  World  to  show 
his  taste  and  industry  to  his  countrymen.  For  the  first  time 
he  began  to  see  how  very  important  a  personage  in  the  eyes 
of  his  fellow-citizens  is  the  antiquarian  who  has  spent  his 
time  abroad  buying  and  acquiring  relics  of  the  dead  past. 

"  By  George  !  "  said  Jones,  as  he  drove  his  hat  unnecessarily 
hard  over  his  head  that  evening,  after  bidding  an  early  good 


376  The  One  Fajr  Woman. 

evening  to  the  old  General  and  his  good  wife  and  daughter, 
"by  George  !  Now  here's  a  chance  to  buy  a  lot  of  this  infer 
nal  antiquarian  stun"  by  the  wholesale,  and  hanged  if  I  don't 
do  it !  " 

Jones  reached  home  early  that  evening,  filled  his  pockets 
with  all  kinds  of  money  and  plenty  of  it,  and  ordered  his 
carriage  for  an  unusually  early  hour. 

It  was  past  the  appointed  time  when  the  artist  came  to 
the  hotel  next  morning,  and  he  found  Mollie  sitting  with 
her  mother  in  the  carriage  waiting  in  the  court  for  his  com 
ing. 

The  General  had  grown  tired  of  waiting,  and  had  gone  back 
to  his  study  and  his  railroads.  Perhaps  he  had  not  wanted 
to  go  in  the  first  place. 

They  drove  rapidly  to  the  Theatre  of  Marcellus. 

"  The  dear  old  Prince,"  said  Mollie,  still  pouting  a  little 
over  the  tardiness  of  the  artist,  "  the  dear  old  prince  of  anti 
quities,  he  will  begin  to  think  I  did  not  intend  to  keep  my 
word." 

Soon  they  drew  up  before  the  shop. 

"  This  is  not  the  place,"  said  Mollie. 

"  It  looks  like  the  place,"  said  Murietta ;  "  but  it  is  shut 
up.  Perhaps  the  old  man  is  sick." 

"  No,  no,  no,"  remonstrated  Mollie,  "  he  is  not  sick,  unless 
he  is  sick  at  heart  and  disgusted  that  I  did  not  keep  niy  pro 
mise.  Come,  we  will  drive  there.  We  will  see  your  palace 
again ;  "  and  the  Californian  girl  gave  the  order,  as  only  a 
Californian  girl  can,  without  asking  the  consent  or  opinion  of 
any  one,  and  in  a  moment  they  were  turning  around  a  corner 
and  making  their  way  through  the  crowd  of  peasants  in  the 
street  of  the  Via  Montenare. 

Under  the  low  arch,  up  the  broken  steps  with  the  long 
grass,  up  by  the  blue  Madonna  with  the  perpetual  lamp  at 
her  feet,  up  the  narrow  stone  steps,  and  the  artist  threw  back 
his  cloak,  fumbled  in  his  pocket,  and  then  the  old  door 


"  Old  Antiquities"  377 

groaned  and  opened  its  wide  mouth,  and  swallowed  the  party 
without  another  word. 

Mollie  fell  to  feeding  the  little  yellow  bird  that  bobbed 'and 
bounded  about  in  its  wire  prison,  and  Mrs.  Wops  us  looked 
out  over  the  pleasant  Palatine  in  the  distance,  while  the  artist 
rang  the  bell  for  a  Countess,  that  he  might  inquire  after  the 
health  of  the  old  Prince. 

A  Countess  came  to  the  door,  saw  Mollie  feeding  the  little 
yellow  favorite ;  and  then  she  fell  at  the  feet  of  the  Cali- 
fornian  girl,  and  laid  hold  of  her  very  shoes,  soiled  and  dusty 
as  they  were,  and  wept  and  laughed  with  delight  by  turns. 

"  Well !  "  said  Murietta  to  himself,  "  that  one  is  not  much 
account  to  answer  questions,  guess  I  shall  have  to  ring  up 
another."  He  pulled  the  bell,  and  pulled  out  another 
Countess  through  the  door.  But  to  his  amazement,  this  one, 
too,  the  moment  she  saw  the  confused  and  embarrassed  girl, 
fell  at  her  feet  beside  her  sister,  and  also  burst  into  tears. 

"  Well,  that's  incomprehensible  !  "  said  the  artist.  "  I 
must  have  some  one  to  explain,"  and  he  again  pulled  the 
bell. 

Then  another  Countess,  and  lo  !  she  too  fell  at  the  feet  of 
the  Californian  girl,  and  wept  and  laughed  with  her  sisters. 

Murietta  was  getting  almost  as  embarrassed  as  Mollie,  who 
had  stood  there  all  this  time,  turning  red  and  more  red  each 
time  a  Countess  came  out  and  fell  at  her  feet.  He  rushed 
back  and  pulled  the  bell  with  all  his  might. 

The  door  opened.  The  fourth  Countess  came,  and  came 
as  if  she  was  a  little  frightened  at  the  loud  manner  in  which 
the  bell  had  rang.  But  no  sooner  did  she  see  the  face  and 
figure  of  Mollie  than  she  went  down  on  her  face  before  her, 
and  mingled  her  tears  with  those  of  her  sisters. 

The  artist  scratched  his  head.  Then,  not  knowing  what 
else  to  do,  and  possibly  not  really  knowing  what  he  did,  he 
reached  and  once  more  pulled  the  bejl  as  if  he  would  break 
its  heart-strings. 


378  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

This  time  there  was  a  shuffling  noise,  and  the  old  Prince 
stood  in  the  door  in  his  slippers,  while  the  Count  stood  look 
ing  '  over  his  shoulder  at  the  scene  before  him.  The  old 
Prince  had  a  great  roll  of  bank  notes  and  Italian  money  of 
many  colors  in  his  hand. 

"  You  did  not  keep  your  promise,"  cried  Mollie,  as  she 
saw.  the  Prince,  for  she  was  glad  to  have  something  to  say  to 
break  this  singular  gathering  of  black  clouds  that  had  quite 
alarmed  her. 

"  Keep  my  promise,  lady !  O  lady,  you  are  my  patron 
saint  !  Surely  you  are  the  Madonna  in  disguise  !  "  And 
here  the  old  man  himself  fell  down  on  his  knees,  and  left  the 
Count  Paolini  standing  all  alone. 

"  You  are  an  angel !  I  am  a  devil,  but  you  are  an  angel !  " 
cried  the  Count ;  and  then  he  too  fell  iipoii  his  knees  before 
her. 

"  What  in  the  woi-ld  does  it  all  mean  ?  Come,  old  Prince, 
get  tip,  I  want  to  buy  your  antiquities." 

"  Buy  my  worthless  antiquities,  lady  !  Thank  heaven, 
they  have  all  been  sold  these  two  hours,  and  the  shop  is  shut. 
1  am  now  indeed  a  Prince.  And  I  have  also  escaped  the  sin 
of  selling  to  you,  my  dearest  friend,  these  worthless  wares, 
for  your  friends  have  bought  them  all,  and  at  my  own 
price." 

The  dark  clouds  about  the  feet  of  the  new  Madonna  had 
gently  risen,  and  some  of  them  were  leaning  out  of  the  win 
dow  by  the  yellow  little  bird  as  the  old  man  finished  this 
speech,  and  rose  up  with  Count  Paolini ;  and  Mollie  now 
stood  quite  alone,  and  seemed  a  little  embarrassed  at  the 
thought  of  how  much  good  she  had  done  to  this  really  good 
old  man  and  his  grateful  and  beautiful  daughters. 

She,  too,  turned  to  feed  the  little  bird  as  before ;  and  then, 
suddenly  unfastening  the  hanging  cage,  she  turned  to  the 
Prince  and  the  Count,  and  holding  it  up  before  her,  while  the 
yellow  little  captive  flew  from  wire  to  wire,  and  chirped  and 


"  Old  Antiqtiities"  379 

bowed,  and  bowed  and  chirped,  as  if  he  was  bowing  and 
chirping  good  bye  to  every  one  at  once,  she  said,  "  I  have 
nothing  to  love  now  but  this  little  yellow  bird.  I  will  take 
this  bird  !  "  And  then  she  turned  to  go  ;  and  as  her  mother 
and  Marietta  followed,  the  ladies  crow'ded  around  and  kissed 
her  hands  as  she  held  the  cage  up  as  if  to  ward  them  off;  but 
the  Count  did  not  dare  to  speak,  and  the  old  Prince  stood  in 
the  door  bowing  profoundly,  and  all  the  time  washing  his 
hands  as  if  he  now  would  really  like  to  wash  off  the  stains 
of  the  acids,  and  forget  that  he  had  ever  had  to  do  with 
them. 

"  Murietta,"  said  Mollie  with  a  sigh,  "  I  have  one  more 
favor  to  ask,"  as  they  drove  up  past  the  base  of  the  great 
stairs  leading  to  the  top  of  the  Capitoline  by  the  little  she- wolf. 

"  And  if  it  is  in  my  power  I  will  grant  it.  Tell  me  what 
it  is." 

"  I  want  you  to  buy  me  that  she- wolf ;  for  I  have  nothing 
now  in  the  world  to  love  but  this  little  yellow  bird."  The 
delicate  little  chin  of  the  girl  quivered  as  she  spoke,  and 
looked  down  at  the  chirping  yellow  creature  springing  from 
wire  to  wire,  and  Mi's.  Wopsus  burst  into  tears. 

"  Why,  my  dear  Mollie,  Rome  would  part  rather  with  the( 
pope  than  that  little  she-wolf.  But  here  !  "  He  called  outj 
to  the  driver,  and,  dismounting  at  a  well-known  turn  in  the' 
street,  soon  had  a  whole  menagerie  of  pets  sent  to  the  car 
riage. 

Mollie  was  not  hard  to  please.  She  chose  an  enormous 
white-winged  cockatoo  from  Africa  and  a  little  brown  poodle 
dog,  not  much  larger  than  a  mouse,  and  the  party  soon  drew 
up  at  the  hotel. 

Mollie  remained  very  thoughtful  for  hours.  After  dinner 
she  said  to  her  father  suddenly  :  "  You  wish  me  to  return  to 
school ?  " 

"  Ah,  my  daughter,"  said  the  General  affectionately,  "  if 
you  only  would  return  to  school  for  a  few  years  !  " 


380  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  Say  no  more  about  it.  I  am  going.  I  am  going  back 
to  school  with  Johnny  in  the  morning.  And  you  are  to  take 
me,  take  me  and  the  little  yellow  fidgetty,  the  brown  mouse 
bull  dog,  and  the  great  big  screaming  cockatoo  and  all !" 

"  And  all,"  cried  the  happy  old  General.  "  Everything 
you  want  in  the  world,  Mollie,  only  go  back  again  to  school, 
and  get  away  from  these  hollow,  cunning,  and  cold-hearted 
fortune-hunters  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  going,  we  will  go  to-morrow ;  "  and  then  she 
rose  up  and  kissed  the  old  General  very  tenderly,  and  then 
kissed  her  mother  till  both  burst  into  tears ;  and  then  in  a 
few  moments  this  little  April  shower  had  blown  over,  and  all 
seemed  perfectly  happy. 

Mollie  and  Marietta  sat  out  on  the  balcony  late  that  night, 
and  watched  the  great  white  moon  settle  and  settle  away  in 
the  west  till  it  touched  the  Mediterranean  Sea. 

"  It  is  my  last  night  in  Rome,  or  in  society  at  all  for  a 
long  time ;  and  I  want  you  to  stay  here  and  talk  to  me,  for  I 
shall  be  a  little  lonesome."  And  so  he  remained  and  talked 
to  the  little  lady  of  the  Far  West  of  all  things,  of  anything 
except  the  one  sad  subject  that  he  feared  might  still  be  eating 
at  her  heart. 

At  last  it  was  time  to  retire,  and  the  two  stood  together 
on  the  balcony  and  he  bade  the  brave,  warm-hearted  little 
woman  farewell,  and  he  kissed  her  with  a  brother's  kiss. 

Suddenly  she  turned,  as  they  were  passing  through  the 
door  to  join  her  parents  in  the  parlor,  and  said,  half  savagely, 
with  her  little  fist  lifted  in  the  air,  "  Do  you  know  what  I 
should  have  done  if  Paolini  had  been  a  man  ?  " 

"  You  mean  if  you  had  been  a  man,  Mollie." 

"  No,  I  don't.  I  mean  if  Paolini  had  been  a  man  ;  or  if 
he  had  been  even  the  tenth  part  of  a  man.  Nay,  had  he 
been  the  hundredth  part  of  the  man  that  I  am  myself  j  do 
you  know  what  I  would  have  done  ?  " 


"  Old  Antiquities."  381 

"  I  do  not  know,  Mollie." 

"  I  would  have  murdered  him  !  "  She  fairly  hissed  the 
words  through  her  teeth.  "  I  would  have  shot  him  through 
the  heart  to-day  !  Shot  him  through  the  heart !  Bet  your 
life  ! " 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 


"  I  HAVE  SOMETHING  TO  TELL 

YOU." 

FEW  days  after  the  last  scene, 
Muiietta,  with  the  Secretary  and 
Carlton,  sauntered  out  of  Rome 
for  a  walk  in  the  Borghese. 
They  passed  through  the  Porto 
Populo,  turned  to  the  right,  and 
passed  under  the  extended  wings 
of  the  great  eagles  that  sit  above 
the  massive  gates  of  the  roads 
under  the  north-east  wall  of  the  city. 

This  was  the  season  for  such  a  walk.  It  was 
just  the  thing  to  do.  All  Rome  was  daily  pursu 
ing  the  same  thing ;  with  the  exception  that  half 
of  Rome  rode  in  carriages,  and  a  portion  still 
were  on  horseback,  including  the  King  of  Italy, 
the  Crown  Prince,  and  a  small  army  of  officers  of 
their  suite. 

The  woods  were  in  full  leaf,  the  grass  grew  long  and 
strong,  and  leaned  in  the  soft  wind  that  blew  through  the 
trees,  and  there  was  the  sound  of  bees  in  the  white  blos 
soms  of  the  locust  boughs  overhead,  and  birds  and  butterflies 
wound  and  wound  through  the  boughs,  and  all  things  seemed 
full  of  life,  and  tranquil  life  and  rest  and  peace. 


"  /  have  Something  to  tell  You"       383 

Away  out  yonder  on  the  lawn,  under  the  wall,  were  a  lot 
of  monks  in  long  red  gowns  playing  at  ball,  and  shouting  at 
each  other  like  children.  Some  of  these  red  monks  were 
black,  curly-headed  negroes. 

Carriages  were  coming  and  going  by  hundreds.  People 
passed  on  foot  in  light  and  airy  dress,  and  horsemen  galloped 
past  in  pairs,  and  men  lifted  their  hats  in  silent  respect  as 
tho  royal  party  rode  on  under  the  waving  boughs,  and  on  by 
the  many  fountains. 

Our  friends  reached  the  heart  of  the  lonely  wood,  and  there 
leaving  the  carriage  road,  went  down  a  stair  of  stones  toge 
ther  toward  a  little  valley  of  deeper  wood,  with  dark  and 
mysterious  walks,  and  fountains  playing  at  every  cross  of  the 
many  iiiterwinding  walks  through  the  silent  and  most 
romantic  wood. 

Some  swans  were  floating  idly  around  under  the  plash  and 
fall  of  the  fountain,  and  children  were  feeding  them  from 
their  little  hands  whenever  they  could  induce  them  near 
enough  to  the  brink  of  the  great  stone  basin  in  which  they 
swam. 

"  Ah,  this  was  a  land  to  battle  for,"  said  Carlton,  swing 
ing  his  cane  in  the  air,  and  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  blue 
skies  through  the  boughs  and  blossoms  overhead. 

"  When  Rome  was  Rome,"  said  the  Secretary,  "  and  there 
stood  on  every  hill  a  new  Jerusalem,  as  it  were,  what  won 
der  that  men  gave  soul  and  body  for  the  hope  of  holding  her 
reins  in  hand  but  a  single  day." 

"  The  skies  are  the  same,"  said  Murietta,  '•'  the  woods  aro 
the  same,  the  birds  and  the  butterflies,  they  blow  about  us 
the  same  as  they  did  around  the  golden  chariots  of  the  Cae 
sars.  Ah,  my  friends,  it  is  not  the  city  that  thrills  you  this 
morning.  It  is  the  wood,  the  air,  the  sky,  Nature.  There 
needs  to  be  no  new  Jerusalem  on  a  hill  to  challenge  your 
admiration  this  morning.  This  is  perfection.  Man  will 
never  make  it  finer,  build  his  cities  as  he  may !  No,  it  is  not 


384  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

the  city.  You  may  build  a  palace  seven  stories  high,  and 
after  all  it  is  not  much  nearer  Heaven  than  a  wigwam."  And 
the  man  half  sighed  as  he  remembered  the  Countess,  whose 
thought  he  had  first  expressed. 

Thus  admiring,  talking  carelessly,  walking  slowly  on,  they 
carne  soon  to  the  carriage  drive  on  the  other  side  of  the 
wood,  for  the  place  is  limited,  and  the  road  makes  a  circuit 
around  the  little  valley  Avith  the  deep  dense  wood.  Our 
friends  had  crossed  the  valley,  and  coming  now  out  of  the 
thick  of  the  wood,  they  saw  a  number  of  carriages  drawn  up 
under  the  trees  on  the  grass  at  the  side  of  the  drive  by  a 
plashing  fountain.  They  drew  near  this  fountain,  for  some 
tall  dark  men,  in  the  costume  of  the  desert,  Arabs  they  were, 
had  dismounted,  and,  oddly  enough,  were  leading  their  supple 
horses  up  to  drink  at  the  fountain;  just  as  if  they  were  out 
on  a  great  desert,  and  had  suddenly  come  upon  a  well. 

Murietta's  admiration  for  the  horse  was  always  great ;  but 
now,  to  see  these  children  of  nature,  here,  in  this  old  civiliza 
tion,  dismount  and  devote  their  first  care  to  their  supple  and 
sinewy  friends,  whom  they  talked  to  and  treated  as  brothers, 
he  was  quite  carried  away,  and  noticed  no  one,  nothing  but 
these  tall  dark  men,  these  Ishmselites,  with  their  strange  his 
tory  and  wild  life  of  the  desert,  and  their  beautiful  horses. 
He  left  his  companions,  and  passed  at  the  back  of  the  party  of 
Arabs,  and  under  the  deeper  hanging  wood,  where  there  were 
but  few  carriages,  to  get  a  better  view  of  the  splendid  steeds 
as  they  stretched  their  necks  and  gratefully  drank  from  the 
fountain. 

"  I  have  escaped  from  my  prison,  you  see,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  " 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  The  man  threw  up  his  hand  to  his 
face  like  a  child  that  is  frightened,  and  took  a  step  backward. 

"Are  you  well?  How  are  you  ?  And  how  does  it  happen 
that  you  are  on  foot,  when  the  king  and  all  his  court  are  so 
gaily  mounted  to-day,  and  riding  through  the  woods  ?  " 

The  lady  laughed  a  little  as  she  spoke,  and,  raising  her 


"  /  have  Something  to  tell  You!"1       385 

head,  looked  to  the  left  down  the  wood  as  if  she  was  ex 
pecting  some  one,  and  was  in  fear  that  he  would  come  too 
soon. 

The  artist  stepped  forward  mechanically,  touched  the  little 
pink  and  pearl  hand ;  and  then,  as  it  fluttered  about  and 
finally  settled,  as  it  always  did  settle,  on  the  bed  of  rose  and 
pink  before  the  beautiful  Countess,  lifted  his  hat,  passed  the 
compliments  of  the  day,  and  was  stepping  back  and  away 
into  the  crowd. 

The  lady  lifted  her  hand,  leaned  forward,  looked  very 
serious  at  the  artist ;  and  then,  glancing  suddenly  over  her 
shoulder,  as  if  to  be  sure  she  was  not  watched  or  overheard, 
she  turned  her  great  brown  eyes,  now  half  full  of  tears,  full 
upon  the  artist,  and  said  : 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you.  Come  here.  For  heaven's 
sake  do  not  leave  me.  This  may  be  the  last  time  I  shall  see 
you.  I  only  managed  to  escape  this  morning  from  my  prison 
by  the  skin  of  my  teeth.  Come  !  " 

The  man  stepped  back,  and  stood  by  the  carriage  very 
awkwardly,  and  very  much  concerned ;  for  the  lady  seemed 
•wild  and  excited  beyond  any  reason. 

She  looked  once  more  over  her  shoulder,  nervously.  "  They 
are  down  there."  The  little  pearl  hand  fluttered  in  the 
direction  of  the  deep  wood. 

"  They  will  be  back  in  a  minute.  You  see  I  cannot  shake 
them  off  for  a  moment.  They  have  got  my  little  boy ;  my 
little  Sunshine,  as  you  call  him." 

The  artist  caught  a  nervous  fear  from  the  lady,  as  if  it  had 
been  a  fever ;  and  he,  too,  began  to  look  down  the  wood  and 
feel  a  dread  that  they  would  come.  Perhaps  this  was  in 
sympathy  for  the  lady,  who  really  seemed  to  suffer  with 
terror  at  the  thought  of  seeing  them. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  lifted  her  finger  to  her  lip,  "  do  you 
know  they  are  trying  to  get  my  little  boy  away  from  me,  try 
ing  to  turn  him  against  me,  and  make  him  hate  me  ?  " 

IT 


386  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

Murietta  did  not  answer.  He  began  to  feel  a  sympathy 
that  was  tearing  his  heart  out. 

"  Well,  they  are,"  she  continued,  still  glancing  now  and 
then  over  her  shoulder,  and  once  more  lifting  her  finger  to 
her  lips,  "  they  are  doing  everything  to  turn  him  against  me, 
and  get  him  away,  and  to  make  him  hate  me.  And  that  is 
not  all ;  nay,  that  is  not  half.  Half!  that  is  nothing — that  is 
nothing  at  all.  But  do  you  know  what  fearful  thing  thoy 
are  trying  to  do  ?  " 

The  artist  again  looked  blank,  but  did  not  answer,  save 
with  his  eyes. 

"  I  will  tell  you.  Look  here.  Lean  your  head  a  little 
further." 

The  artist  stepped  close,  and  she  reached  out  her  face,  now 
all  aglow,  and  once  more  looking  over  her  shoulder,  she  said 
excitedly : 

"  They  are  trying  to  make  him  a  Catholic  !  " 
Then  the  lady's  face  grew  suddenly  white,  and  she  settled 
back  in  her  bed  of  pink  and  rose,  and  the  little  pearl  hand 
lay  on  her  lap  as  dead  and  helpless  as  if  it  was  to  never  rise 
up  any  more. 

If  there  had  been  a  grain  of  selfishness  in  the  make-up  of 
this  man,  he  now  would  certainly  have  lifted  his  hat  and 
turned  away.  There  are  men  who  suffer  more  from  the  ner 
vous  fears  and  concerns  of  others  than  from  their  own. 
Murietta  was  such  a  man  as  this.  He  was  a  man  who  had 
suffered  terribly  and  intensely  all  his  life ;  yet  he  despised 
suffering  when  that  suffering  was  his  own.  When  the  affair 
was  one  of  his  own,  he  would  rise  up,  take  the  bit  in  his  teeth. 
if  the  occasion  was  great  enough  to  demand  it,  and  right 
things  and  revenge  them,  or  else  bear  and  be  satisfied.  But 
when  it  was  another  who  suffered,  a  fair  and  a  beautiful 
woman,  full  of  soul  and  sentiment,  and  one  whom  he  could 
not  assist,  then  he,  through  this  sympathetic  nature  of  his, 
suffered  too,  and  even  more  terribly  than  she. 


"  I  have  Something  to  tell  You"      387 

Standing  there  before  her,  all  the  sunshine  of  the  day  was 
driven  away.  He  became  most  utterly  overcast.  A  cold 
moist  wind  seemed  blowing  on  him,  and  rasping  his  nerves 
with  a  chill  and  damp  that  went  to  the  marrow. 

He  wanted  to  get  away,  and  yet  his  unselfish,  sympathetic 
nature  bade  him  stand  there  and  suffer  while  she  suffered. 

He  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  from  under  the  boughs  over 
and  across  the  fountain,  for  the  Arabs  were  now  leading  their 
horses  away  and  mounting  them  in  the  edge  of  the  open  road. 
Watching  these  men,  for  want  of  something  better  to  do,  while 
he  stood  there,  his  eyes  met  the  eyes  of  Carl  ton.  He  had 
been  looking  at  him  all  this  time.  Glancing  around  the 
crowd,  he  saw  that  others,  too,  were  noticing  him,  and  frown 
ing  or  half  sneering  as  if  he  had  been  caught  in  a  crime. 

It  was  his  turn  now  to  turn  pale.  The  whole  thing  flashed 
on  his  mind  in  a  moment.  "  Then  they  saw  me  put  down 
my  face  to  hers  to  hear  her  tell  her  trouble.  They  saw  her 
reach  her  hand,  saw  her  fall  back  in  the  carriage  as  if  some 
thing  terrible  had  been  said  or  done."  He  pulled  his  cloak 
close  about  his  shoulders,  for  he  was  growing  chill,  even  in  a 
Roman  summer. 

The  Countess  half  straightened  in  her  seat,  and  looking  up 
under  the  sweeping  boughs  down  a  sloping  walk  towards  a 
fountain,  she  said,  "  They  are  coming,"  and  then  she  smiled 
in  the  old  half-sad  fashion,  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  for 
she  caught  sight  of  her  little  boy  sailing  along  with  his  hat 
in  his  hand  and  his  hair  on  the  morning  wind,  as  he  ran  in 
chase  of  a  butterfly. 

"  How  beautiful  he  is  this  morning,"  said  Marietta. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  the  Countess,  now  quite  recovered, 
"  that  I  am  perfectly  certain  that  children  come  to  us  di 
rectly  and  immediately  from  among  the  angels  ?  " 

"  And  pray,"  smiled  Murietta,  "  how  came  you  by  such 
pleasant  knowledge  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  know  it  by  the  way  they  behave,  by  their  actions. 


388  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

See — look  ut  my  little  boy  there,  as  lie  runs  in  chase  of  the 
butterfly.  How  light  and  airy  he  is.  He  is  hardly  yet  of 
the  earth.  You  see  he  can  almost  fly  even  yet.  He  is  more 
of  heaven  than  earth,  even  though  he  has  already  been  here 
for  some  years." 

The  old  Admiral  was  glorious  in  his  summer  sailor's  clothes 
and  low-crowned  hat,  with  its  immense  band,  just  as  we  have 
seen  him  at  Genoa.  He  walked  with  the  same  swagger 
through  the  beautiful  avenue  by  the  musical  fountains  as  he 
did  at  the  first.  Beauty,  melody,  nature,  had  nothing  in 
common  with  him,  and  took  no  hold  on  his  hard  and  uncom 
promising  soul. 

"  Oh,  that  monster  !  Must  I  for  ever  remain  in  the  power 
of  that  man  ?  "  The  lady  hid  her  face  as  she  said  this,  and 
shuddered  and  trembled. 

Murietta's  blood  was  in  his  face  once  more.  He  was 
about  to  speak,  about  to  throw  back  his  cloak  and  ask  per 
mission  of  the  Countess  to  fly  at  the  throat  of  this  man  who 
was  persecuting  her,  whomsoever  he  might  be,  and  strangle 
him  on  the  spot ;  when  she  went  on  kindly,  as  she  uncovered 
her  face  : 

"  You  made  me  a  promise." 

"Yes." 

"  You  promised  that  when  I  sent  my  maid  to  you — sent 
any  one  with  word  to  you  that  I  needed  you,  you  would 
come." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  emphatically. 

"Lift  your  hand." 

He  lifted  his  hand  from  out  his  cloak  and  in  the  air  above 
his  head. 

"  You  swear  to  keep  your  promise  ?  " 

"  I  swear  to  keep  my  promise." 

"  There,  that  is  well,"  and  she  sank  back  again  as  the  men 
drew  near.  Then,  suddenly  rising  up  and  leaning  forward, 
she  said,  "  Here  is  a  secret.  My  father  is  coming.  My  old, 


" /  have  Something  to  tell  You"      389 

old  father.  He  is  old  and  he  is  dying,  but  he  is  coming  to 
take  me  out  of  Italy  and  away  from  these  people  who  hold 
me  here,  or  die  with.  me.  He  is  coming.  They  will  try  to 
keep  him  from  coming ;  they  have  kept  him  from  me  for 
years,  but  he  will  be  here  soon.  They  will  try  to  keep  him 
from  seeing  me  when  he  comes.  But  you " 

The  men  were  passing  through  the  wood  but  a  few  steps 
distant.  The  old  Admiral  had  his  hat  in  his  left  hand,  and 
was  reaching  the  other  to  Marietta. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Murietta.  You  know  I  am  a  blunt 
but  honest  sailor." 

The  Countess  leaned  forward,  and  almost  screamed  these 
words,  "  Don't  touch  his  hand,  he  is  a  murderer." 


CHAPTER   XLV. 


WHAT    THEY    SAY. 


HE  Count  was  not  at  all  want 
ing  in  politeness  this  morn 
ing.  Italians  never  are,  ex 
cept  it  be  to  their  wives  or 
their  servants,  but  it  seemed 
to  Murietta,  who  stood  there 
quietly  on  his  ground  and 
also  on  his  guard,  that  he  was 
just  a  little  over-anxious  to 
gel  in  the  carriage  and  get  his  wife 
away. 

"That  man,"  said  the  artist,  after 
lifting  his  hat  to  the  Countess,  as  the 
carriage  whirled  away,  (<  that  man 
simply  has  a  property  in  that  woman. 
Whatever  they  may  say,  he  is  a  knave ; 
and  if  he  is  not  as  great  a  knave  as 

the  Admiral,  it  is  not  because  he  lacks  the  motive,  but  the 
brain." 

"  Beautiful  horses,"  said  the  Secretary,  looking  in  the  di 
rection  the  Arabs  had  just  taken  down  the  drive. 

"Yes,  and  beautiful  men  those  fellows  of  the  desert,"  an 
swered  Murietta,  as  the  three  friends  once  more  fell  in  to- 


What   They  Say.  391 

gether  and  sought  the  deeper  shade,  for  the  sun  was  now  high 
and  hot  when  yon  were  not  protected  by  the  wood  or  the 
plash  of  a  fountain. 

"  Ah,  but  my  friend  Marietta,"  laughed  Carlton,  "  has  a 
better  eye  for  beautiful  women  than  beautiful  horses,  or 
beautiful  men  either  !  " 

"  So  I  fear,  so  I  fear  ;  and  if  a  Secretary  may  be  permitted 
to  say  as  much,  all  Rome  is  perfectly  well  aware  of  the  fact." 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Murietta,  earnestly  and  emphatically, 
"  that  for  what  all  Rome  may  say  !  "  and  he  snapped  his  fin 
gers  in  the  air  with  a  force  not  to  be  mistaken ;  "  but  as  for 
that  lady,  the  lady  to  whom  I  spoke,  and  of  whom  you  speak, 
she  is  a  stranger  here  in  a  strange  land,  and  in  trouble." 

((  Ah,"  said  the  good  Secretary,  quietly,  "  that  is  a  good 
beginning  for  a  novel !  " 

"  Come,  come,  Murietta,  you  are  indeed  stating  a  strong 
case!  The  lady  may  be  a  stranger,  and  also  in  a  strange 
land,  but  she  is  hardly  among  strangers." 

"  Please  to  explain,"  said  Murietta,  as  they  walked  on 
through  the  wood  together. 

"  Well,  a  lady  who  is  with  her  husband  and  has  her  chil 
dren  or  her  child  about  her,  and  has  besides  an  income  that 
supports  a  palace  and  a  small  army  of  servants,  can  hardly 
be  said  to  be  among  strangers  !  " 

"  And  then  the  Count  is  so  very,  very  kind.  Why,  do  you 
know,"  said  the  Secretary,  "  he  can  scarcely  speak  of  her  or 
her  malady  without  tears  ?  " 

"  Her  malady  !  "  exclaimed  Murietta,  stopping  short  in  the 
road,  as  he  moved  between  his  two  friends. 

"  Yes,  her  malady.  The  Countess,  did  you  not  know  it,  is 
mad." 

"  Then  so  am  I  mad !  "  answered  the  man  with  earnest 
ness. 

"  Not  at  all  unlikely  !  "  laughed  Carltou,  "  only  your  mad 
ness,  my  dear  boy,  is  a  sort  of  innocence  that  makes  us  like 


392  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

you  all  the  more,  and  not  afraid  to  be  with  you  ;  while  that 
of  the  Countess  is  of  a  dangerous  nature,  and  the  poor  Count 
has  no  alternative  but  to  put  her  in  a  mad-house,  or  keep  a 
constant  watch  over  her." 

"  And  how  noble  it  is  in  him  to  give  up  his  life  to  taking 
care  of  her,"  said  the  Secretary  zealously.  "  Why,  the  old 
Admiral  tells  me  that  the  Count  scarcely  sleeps  from  one 
week's  end  to  another." 

"  The  Admiral !  "  said  Murietta  with  a  sneer,  as  he 
thought  of  what  the  Countess  had  just  hissed  in  his  ear. 

"  Ah,  I  see,"  returned  the  Secretary,  "  you  are  disposed  to 
laugh  at  the  rough  but  honest  old  sailor,  but  he  is  just  the 
man  for  the  place.  You  could  not  expect  a  prince  or  a  man 
of  an  over-sensitive  nature  to  consent  to  become  the  guardian 
or  body-guard,  as  it  were,  of  a  mad  woman.  No,  no,  it 
takes  pluck,  and  patience,  and  gentleness,  and  a  great  deal  of 
good  sound  sense  and  firmness ;  and  all  these  qualities  the 
old  Admiral  possesses,  I  am  sure." 

"  I  am  bound  to  say  I  never  liked  the  old  Admiral,"  added 
Carlton.  "  He  is  either  a  very  flat  old  fool,  or  a  very  deep 
knave,  and  I  do  not  know  which ;  and  besides,  1  do  not  know 
that  it  is  any  of  my  business." 

"  No,  no  ;  he  is  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  I  know  the 
man,  and  I  know  human  natiire.  We  novelists  must  study 
human  nature.  We  must  make  it  a  specialty  in  order  to 
succeed.  That  is  my  specialty.  Well,  this  man,  the  Ad 
miral,  is  simply  an  honest,  happy-go-lucky  old  seaman, 
who  is  honest  to  the  core  himself,  and  of  course  thinks 
every  one  else  so.  For  my  part,  I  should  like  first-rate  to 
put  him  in  a  novel,  as  the  hero  of  a  great  humanitarian 
enterprise,  and  a  man  who  went  about  in  a  blunt,  honest 
way,  doing  good  to  every  one,  and  not  asking  or  expecting 
any  return." 

"  I  am  afraid  there  would  be  but  little  good  done  in  the 
world,  if  it  was  left  for  that  man  to  do  it,"  said  the  artist, 


What   They  Say.  393 

"  and  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  fall  in  with  your  hero  on  the 
highway  of  a  night,  I  assure  you  !  " 

"  Why  !  good  heavens  !  do  you  fear  that  he  would  rob 
you?"  " 

"  He  would  either  rob  me  or  run  away." 

"  Ha,  you  painters,  you  study  only  nature  generally.  We 
novelists  study  human  nature.  If  we  did  not,  we  would  not 
get  on.  You  can  give  me  the  tints  and  the  bloom  and  the 
beauty  of  that  bank  of  rose  and  briar  to  a  nicety  and  preci 
sion  that  I  would  despair  of,  but  you  cannot  tell  one  man. 
or  one  man's  motive,  where  I,  as  a  novelist,  can  tell  a  hun 
dred." 

"  Well,  well,  whatever  there  is  in  the  old  Admiral,  either 
good  or  bad,  it  matters  little  to  me ;  but  I  do  pity  the  poor 
Count  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart ;  for  he  has  a  hard  time 
of  it,  and  all  Rome  sympathizes  with  him  most  deeply,"  said 
Carlton. 

"  And  the  lady  ?  "  said  M  urietta,  stopping  suddenly  again, 
and  looking  Carlton  in  the  face  inquiringly. 

"  Well,  yes ;  I  pity  the  lady  too,  I  suppose.  At  least  I 
had  not  thought  of  that.  She  somehow  never  seemed  to 
challenge  my  sympathy.  She  is  always  smiling,  always  ban 
tering,  sometimes  saying  very  wild  and  often  very  pointed 
things." 

"  While  he,  her  lord,  who  sits  in  watch  and  judgment  over 
her,"  said  Murietta,  as  they  moved  on,  "does  ask  yoxi  for 
pity,  does  pose  and  profess,  and  bend  down  and  keep  himself 
all  the  time  in  favor  with  the  world,  like  a  hound  as  he  is, 
winning  the  world's  good  will  at  the  risk  of  his  wife's  good 
name." 

The  party  had  passed  through  the  valley  of  close  wood,  and 
climbed  the  stone  steps  before  the  fountain. 

"  We  will  meet  this  evening,"  said  the  Secretary,  reaching 
his  hand,  as  if  glad  to  break  off  the  unpleasant  subject  of  the 
unfortunate  Countess,  "  this  evening  at  the  palace  of  the 

17* 


394  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

cloudy  old  General,  who  is  all  the  time  dreaming  and  drifting 
away  on  his  battle-cloud." 

"  And  may  we  meet  in  peace  !  "  smiled  Marietta.  He 
took  his  hand  and  said  good-bye,  as  if  he  had  just  now  thought 
of  this  approaching  evening  for  the  first  time  ;  when  it  had 
been  in  his  heart,  been  standing  there  as  the  one  great  coming 
event  of  his  life,  every  hour  since  he  had  met  her  in  that 
little  heaven  at  the  head  of  the  long  and  tiresome  corkscrew 
stairs  the  week  before. 

How  cunning  is  love  !  He  deceives  everyone.  He  will  be 
frank  with  no  one.  He  deceives  the  heart  he  dwells  in  most 
of  all. 

The  two  artists  moved  on  down  the  slope  toward  the  gate 
with  great  stone  eagles  over  it,  in  silence.  The  red  monks 
had  finished  their  game  of  ball,  and  were  now  gathering  .to 
gether  in  groups  in  the  long  grass  and  out  of  the  sun.  The 
king,  too,  had  gone  back  with  his  suite  from  his  morning 
ride,  and  the  many  carriages  were  gradually  finding  the  gate 
that  led  out  of  the  wood  and  back  to  Rome. 

Carriages  were  passing  down  the  drive  toward  the  gate  in 
hundreds,  as  our  friends  kept  on  under  the  locust  trees,  that 
were  white  and  fragrant  with  flowers  and  full  of  the  drowsy 
sound  of  bees. 

Murietta  was  thinking,  and  he  was  thinking  too  of  the 
Countess  with  the  deepest  concern.  He  was  conscious  that 
he  had  done  nothing,  said  nothing,  nay,  thought  nothing 
whatever  that  could  possibly  have  been  construed,  either  by 
the  world  or  by  her,  into  an  improper  act  or  word  or  thought, 
or  anything  but  the  highest  and  most  holy  motive. 

And  yet  Rome  was  loud  with  her  name  and  his,  if  the  not 
over-sensitive  Carlton,  and  the  very  stupid  but  good-natured 
Secretary  were  to  be  believed.  What  could  he  do?  He 
turned  this  over  and  over  in  his  mind  ;  and  then,  feeling  still 
helpless  and  at  the  mercy  of  the  many  idle  tongues,  he  found 
relief  in  the  fact  that  he  had  promised  to  stand  by  her  side  if 


What   They   Say.  395 

ever  she  needed  assistance,  and  the  further  fact  that  her 
father  was  on  his  way  to  Rome,  and  so  with  an  effort  dis 
missed  the  subject  from  his  mind. 

They  were  passing  under  an  arch  by  some  sarcophagi  and 
an  obelisk,  where  the  drive  is  very  narrow,  and  the  carriages 
were  jammed  and  blocked  for  a  moment  in  the  road. 

The  artist  lifted  his  eyes,  and  then  let  them  fall  in  an  in 
stant,  as  if  they  had  received  the  full  light  of  the  sun. 

He  lifted  his  eyes  again  and  bowed.  The  lady,  the  one 
fair  woman,  Annette,  had  recognized  him,  and  inclined  her 
head  from  her  carriage,  where  she  sat  by  the  side  of  her 
father  the  General,  who  still  rode  on  his  battle-cloud  and  saw 
no  one. 

The  carriage  passed  on  instantly,  but  the  lady  half  turned 
her  head,  half  looked  back  over  her  shoulder  as  she  whirled 
out  of  sight ;  looked  back  at  the  artist  in  the  old  way  as  he 
had  ever  painted  her.  But  this  time  she  smiled,  and  the  man 
was  made  more  happy  than  he  had  been  that  morning  with 
all  the  smiles  of  nature  in  his  face. 

The  gay  and  careless  Oarlton  stopped  suddenly,  with  his 
feet  on  the  edge  of  the  green  grass  under  a  white  locust 
tree  with  the  sound  of  the  bees  above  them,  and,  turning 
sharp,  looked  his  friend  in  the  face,  and  said  slowly  but 
severely : 

"  You  are  a  fool !  " 

"  Since  you  are  so  in  earnest,"  answered  Murietta,  also 
stopping  and  looking  up  as  if  at  the  bees  in  the  locust  blos 
soms,  "  you  perhaps  will  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me  on  what 
particular  act  of  mine  you  base  this  voluntary  but  no  doubt 
very  honest  opinion." 

"  Well,"  said  Carlton,  half  leaning  against  the  locust  tree, 
and  also  looking  up  at  the  bees,  as  if  he  felt  rather  in  doubt 
about  the  ground  on  which  he  was  now  about  to  tread  once 
more,  "  well,  you  see  that  I  happen  to  know  you  have  been 
following  this  beautiful  lady,  the  belle  of  Italy,  for  years." 


396  The  One  Fair   Woman. 

11  And  ?  "  queried  Murietta,  half  smiling,  and  looking  away 
to  the  left  under  the  locust  boughs  at  a  party  of  red  monks. 

"  And  you  have  found  her,  and  she  favors  you  as  she 
would  not  favor  a  prince  !  Why,  just  fancy,"  and  here  the 
man  brought  his  eyes  down  from  the  bees  up  in  the  white 
blossoms,  "just  fancy  a  lady  in  her  position  picking  you  out 
of  this  vast  army  of  vagabonds  here  on  foot,  and  turning  in 
her  carriage  and  speaking  to  you  with  her  eyes,  and  looking 
after  you  down  the  avenue." 

"  And  therefore  I  am  a  fool ;  a  fortunate  fool,  eh  ?  " 

"No,  not  therefore.  Not  for  that,"  answered  the  other 
seriously.  "  No,  my  friend  Murietta,  you  are  so  blind  and 
so  careless  of  the  great  world  that  crushes  or  crowns  us. 
Pardon  me  for  alluding  to  the  Countess  once  more,  after  what 
passed  in  the  Cafe  Greco." 

"  Go  on,"  answered  Murietta,  still  looking  away  under  the 
white  boughs  at  the  red  monks  moving  along  the  sward  of 
long  green  grass,  with  the  great  brown  wall  of  Rome  for  a 
background.  "  Go  on,  you  are  pardoned  for  all  your  sins  in 
that  direction,  according  to  the  Church,  for  forty  days  to 
come." 

"Well,  then,  do  you  not  know  that  when  that  fair  lady 
Annette  leaned  from  her  carriage  and  looked  at  you,  she 
looked  at  you  through  a  cloud,  a  perfect  thunder-cloud,  that 
you  have  brought  about  your  own  head  with  your  own 
hands. 

"  Heavens  !  what  do  you  speak  of  ?  " 

"  I  speak  of  the  Countess  again,  your  pink  Countess  and 
the  poor  half-distracted  Count.  If  there  is  no  one  in  Rome 
among  all  your  admirers  friend  enough  to  tell  you  of  your 
folly,  I  will  take  the  resposibility  myself." 

"  But  what  have  I  done?  "  aaked  Murietta  eagerly,  looking 
his  friend  in  the  face. 

"  Nought,  so  far  as  I  know.  In  fact  I  know— I,  who  know- 
that  you  love  but  this  one  fair  woman  who  has  just  passed, 


What   They  Say.  397 

know  perfectly  well  that  you  have  done  nothing ;  or,  at  least, 
if  you  have  done  anything,  you  have  done  it  with  the  best  of 
intentions.  But  the  world,  Murietta,  does  not  know  it — the 
great  big  world  does  not  know  you." 

"  Then  pray  tell  me  what  this  great  big  world,  as  yoxi  call 
it,  says  of  my  sin." 

"  Well,"  began  Carlton,  as  he  laid  one  forefinger  medita 
tively  across  the  other,  and  speaking  very  slowly  and 
earnestly,  "  the  old  Admiral  says,  and  the  great-little  world 
of  Rome  believes  him,  that  you  are  winning  the  affections  of 
the  Countess  away  from  her  lord,  and  that  she  is  too  weak  of 
mind  to  resist ;  that,  in  fact,  you  are  about  to  betray  and 
mislead  and  ruin  a  lady  who  is  insane  and  irresponsible." 

Marietta's  fingers  twitched  nervously,  and  his  lips  were  pale 
as  ashes.    lie  reached  out  to  the  hedge,  and  plucking  a  bunch 
of  budding  roses  and  twigs  and  leaves,  he  crushed  them  all 
together  between  his  fingers,  but  did  not  answer. 
"  It  sounds  dreadful,  does  it  not?  " 

"  It  is  a  crime,"  said  Murietta  at  last,  with  a  sigh,  "  by 
the  side  of  which  murder  is  but  a  child's  amusement !  " 

"  Of  course  I  know  better.  And  to  come  back  to  the  fair 
lady  who  has  just  passed,  and  who  looked  on  you  so  favor 
ably,  she,  too,  must  know  better.  Yet,  seeing  her  so  friendly, 
and  remembering  that  you  had  just  left  the  side  of  the  Coun 
tess,  I  could  not  help  saying  as  I  did — You  are  a  fool." 

"  Well,  I  may  be  a  fool.  But,  Carlton,  that  Admiral  is  a 
knave  of  the  deepest  quality,  and  that  Count  is  a  scoundrel 
and  a  coward.  And  what  is  more,  now  mark  me,  that  Coun 
tess  is  no  more  insane  than  yourself." 

Carlton  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  looked  away  up  the 
avenue  at  the  approaching  night. 

"  She  is  in  trouble ;  and  so  far  from  being  insane,  it  takes 
all  the  talent  of  these  two  scoundrels  to  watch  her.  Two 
men,  you  see,  against  one  poor  invalid  woman." 

"  Ah  !  but  you  know,"  cried  Carlton,  "  these  lunatics  are 


398  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

oftentimes  the  most  cunning,  and  often  elude  the  whole  set 
of  keepers  at  an  asylum." 

"  No  matter.  She  is  not  insane.  I  have  served  her  in  a 
small  way.  I  stand  ready  to  do  so  even  to  the  risk  of  life." 

"You  risk  more  than  life,  you  risk  your  good  name." 

"  So  much  the  more  credit  and  honour  !  A  dog  can  die. 
It  is  something  more  than  death,  however,  to  give  name  and 
fame  and  all,  and  die  disgraced.  Yet  this  I  stand  ready  to  do. 
And  mark  me.  Since  this  thing  is  being  said  of  me,  I  shall 
-walk  through  Rome,  reach  my  hand  to  this  lady,  and  defy 
them  all." 

"  Well,  you  will  find  yourself  alone.  Here,  shake  hands  ! 
The  lady  has  not  one  friend  in  the  city.  I  tell  you  the  whole 
town  is  in  sympathy  with  the  Count,  and  that  she  stands 
alone." 

"  Then  ten  times  the  reason  I  should  stand  by  her  side.  O 
brave  city  !  most  valiant  little  world !  to  take  the  side  so 
unanimously  of  the  strong  !  " 

"  Come,  we  will  not  shake  hands  now,"  said  Carlton,  as  he 
passed  his  hand  through  the  arm  of  his  friend,  and  the  two 
went  on  slowly  down  the  avenue,  "  but  I  will  tell  you  what 
to  do." 

"  Well,  I  will  hear  you  with  patience." 

"  If,"  began  Carlton,  throwing  up  his  head,  "  if,  as  you 
imagine,  an  American  lady  is  being  imposed  upon,  and  is  the 
victim  of  some  plot  in  this  strange  land,  then  lay  the  matter 
before  the  consul.  But  be  advised,  and  do  not  commit  your 
self  to  this  lady's  follies  or  freaks,  whatever  they  may  be." 

"  The  American  consul  ?  " 

"Yes,  the  American  consul." 

"  Carlton,  do  you  know  what  an  American  consul  is  ? 
Well,  he  is  a  poor,  lean,  hungry  dyspeptic,  whose  greatest 
achievement  in  life  has  been  in  procuring  the  place  he  occ\i- 
pi.es,  and  whose  sole  capacity  is  addressed  to  the  work  of  hold 
ing  it." 


What   They  Say.  399 

"  But  they  are  here  in  these  foreign  lands  for  the  purpose 
of  protecting  strangers." 

"  Possibly  away  back  in  the  early  history  of  the  govern 
ment  there  existed  a  tradition  to  that  effect,  but  it  is  now 
obsolete.  The  business  of  the  politic,  cautious,  and  noncom- 
mittant  consul  of  to-day  is  to  protect  himself.  But  besides, 
in  justice  to  these  poor  pensioners,  who  have  served  some 
political  master  at  home  and  are  now  having  their  meagre  re 
ward  or  rather  punishment,  you  must  know  that  they  have  but 
little  power  and  less  money.  They  can  affix  a  seal  to  a  docu 
ment,  and  send  home  a  sailor  who  has  been  unjustly  discharged 
in  a  foreign  land,  and  there  their  power  and  authority  ends." 

Carlton  looked  incredulous. 

"  All  this  is  strictly  true,"  continued  Murietta,  "  They 
have  a  name  and  that  is  all.  They  have  hardly  bread  enough 
to  live  upon.  They  are  literally  like  the  Italian  nobility  of  the 
Ghetto.  I  happen  to  know  the  consul  at  Naples.  He  is  a 
gentleman,  a  perfect  gentleman,  and  a  very  learned  man,  yet 
he  has  neither  power  nor  money.  He  is  literally  starved.  I 
think  he  is  the  leanest  American  I  ever  saw  abroad." 

"  No,"  said  Murietta  emphatically,  as  they  passed  through 
the  gate,  and  Carlton  was  still  silent,  "  if  you  want  anyone 
helped  in  Italy,  don't  fancy  you  can  find  a  consul  either  ca 
pable  or  willing  to  assist.  You  must  do  it  yourself." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  C'arlton  at  last,  as  if  he  had  been  think 
ing,  "  suppose  you  help  this  lady  in  any  imaginary  trouble, 
what  will  come  of  that,  and  where  will  it  end  ?  " 

"  Time  enough  to  think  of  the  consequence,  Carlton,  after 
the  task.  I  am  not  a  merchant.  I  am  a  soldier  by  nature, 
and  a  knight  by  birth  and  culture.  I  am  not  a  cautious  man 
or  a  coward.  Caution  belongs  to  politicians." 

"  However,  we  leave  Rome  soon,"  said  Carlton,  with  an 
other  light  toss  of  the  head,  "  and  then  there  will  be  at  leasfc 
the  end  of  one  chapter  of  the  story,  if  not  one  volume." 

"  Yes,  that  I  know  was  our  agreement.    We  leave  Rome  to- 


400  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

gether  for  Venice,  and  the  time  agreed  upon  comes  on but  " 

he  turned,  lifted  his  finger  as  both  stopped,  and  again  looked 
the  man  in  the  face  before  him,  "  I  have  just  promised  the 
Countess  not  to  leave  Rome  till  her  father  arrives,  and  I  will 
not." 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  again,  one  with  a  sort  of 
remonstrance  in  his  face,  and  the  other  with  quiet  determina 
tion,  and  then  they  moved  on  with  the  crowd. 
I     "  And  when  will  her  father  arrive  ?  "  asked   Carlton,  in  a 
half  doubting,  half  moody  manner. 

"  I  do  not  know.  But  he  will  certainly  be  here  before  long. 
It  is  safe  to  say  he  will  be  here  before  our  day  of  departure,  so 
do  not  yet  borrow  any  trouble  in  that  quarter.  Possibly  he 
will  arrive  to-morrow." 

"  And  if  he  arrives  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  If  he  arrives  to-morrow,  or  whenever  he  does  arrive,  my 
relations  with  the  Countess  cease.  He  will  be  able  to  protect 
her  from  the  wretches  that  surround  her." 

"  To  protect  her  from  her  husband,"  half  laughed  Carlton. 

"  Certainly  !  to  protect  her  from  her  husband,"  cried  the 
artist,  emphatically.  "  Do  you  not  know  that  there  are  such 
things  as  tyrants  and  gaolers  and  all  but  murderers  in  some 
palaces  ?  Do  you  not  know  that  the  handsome  man,  the  mar 
rying  man, — the  good  fellow,  as  he  is  called  by  his  friends — 
the  man  who  gives  his  time  to  his  friends,  his  money  to  the 
wine  dealer,  and  God  knows  what  to  his  wife,  is  half  the  time 
a  murderer  ?  " 

Again  Carlton  was  arrested,  and,  as  they  passed  by  a 
fountain,  turned  and  looked  amazed  at  his  friend,  as  he  con 
tinued 

"  These  petty  tyrants  are  wife  murderers,  they  kill  their 
wives  by  inches.  They  sometimes  drive  them  into  a  madhouse, 
but  oftener  drive  them  into  eternity.  And  what  is  most 
terrible,  they  know  it.  These  handsome,  gay,  gallant,  carpet 
knights,  who  are  all  the  time  bowing  before  the  world  and 


What   They  Say.  401 

winning  its  worthless  applause,  as  princes  of  good  fellows, 
know  perfectly  well  the  crime  they  commit.  They  see  their 
poor,  persecuted  wives  die,  day  by  day,  inch  by  inch,  and  take 
a  delight  in  it." 

"  Well,"  answered  Carlton  at  last,  as  if  recovering  himself, 
"  that  is  an  open  question,  and  a  question  that  will  keep  ;  but 
now,  suppose  the  lady's  father  comes  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Then  I  am  ready  to  go  with  you  to  Venice  to-morrow." 

"  Good  !     Then  we  will  reform  to-morrow." 

"  Reform  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yes,  reform  !  You  know  1  am  always  reforming  to 
morrow,"  answered  Carlton,  as  he  reached  his  hand  to  say  good- 
evening,  at  the  end  of  the  Corso.  "  To-morrow,  my  boy,  is 
the  best  of  all  days  to  reform  in.  The  great  mysterious  to 
morrow  that  ever  runs  before  !  "  He  waved  his  hand,  as  he 
turned  towards  the  Forum  of  Trajan,  and  said,  as  he  looked 
back,  "  To-morrow,  we  will  reform  to-morrow  !  " 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 


A   NEW  CURRENT  OF    LIFE. 


T  was  with  a  heart  beating 
warm  and  wild,  that  Muri- 
etta  mounted  the  great  stair 
way,  with  its  rows  of  plants 
and  flowers  set  on  either  side 
behind  the  shining  brass 
banisters,  leading  to  the  door 
that  should  open  to  him,  for 
the  first  time,  upon  the  Ono 
Fair  Woman. 

He  found  the  door  closed  when  he  had 
mounted  the  stairway,  and  was  glad  of  it,  for 
it  gave  him  time  to  rest  and  collect  his  thoughts. 
As  he  stood  there  he  could  hear  the  beating 
fo  his  heart. 

To   the   right,    as   if   guarding    the    door, 
stood  a  great  Californian  lion,  with  his  head 
Jifted  and  his  mouth  wide  open. 

"  Ah,  my  old  friend,  my  whilom  old  companion  of  the 
Cordilleras,  we  have  met  before,"  said  Murietta,  as  he  ad 
vanced  and  stroked  his  broad  lifted  head.  "  It  seems  to  me 
it  is  a  good  omen  to  meet  you  here.  It  is  like  shaking  hands 
with  an  old  friend  on  the  field  of  battle.  Well,  guard  her 


A  New   Current  of  Life.  403 

well,  my  Californian  lion,  guard  her  well !  "  said  the  dreamer, 
and  he  stepped  back  to  the  door  and  drew  the  bell. 

A  man  stood  before  him — a  man,  as  the  door  opened,  who 
looked  as  if  he  had  been  chiselled  by  some  of  those  wonderful 
sculptors  out  of  a  solid  piece  of  the  blackest  midnight. 

Then  the  great  African,  with  a  manner  made  up  out  of 
combined  ease  and  indolence,  took  his  hat  and  coat,  led 
through  the  great  saloon  to  the  door  of  a  still  greater  one, 
and  announced  his  name.  Then  there  was  a  little  nutter 
among  the  dozen  birds  of  beautiful  plumage  gathered  there,  a 
lady  came  forward — the  One  Fair  Woman — and  the  man  stood 
face  to  face  with  what  I  may  call  his  Destiny. 

Even  this  great  saloon  was  a  forest  of  flowers,  right  and  left, 
as  he  entered.  His  feet  sank  in  the  soft  and  seamless  carpet, 
as  he  advanced  to  be  presented  to  the  fair  woman's  mother, 
and  to  take  the  hand  of  the  good  old  General,  who  seemed  to 
come  down  from  out  his  battle-cloud  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  give  his  hand,  for  in  a  moment  he  was  off  again,  drift 
ing  and  dreaming  and  riding  higher  and  higher,  on  his  cloud 
of  battle-smoke. 

Sofas  and  settees  and  ottomans,  and  every  oriental  luxury 
that  a  fervid  imagination  could  conceive  of  as  places  of  re. 
pose,  were  scattered  here  and  there,  like  little  flower-beds  in  a, 
garden,  and  in  these  flower-beds  were  blossoming  many  beau 
tiful  flowers. 

There  were  tiger  skins  scattered  about  the  floor  in  a  wild 
and  careless  way,  and  back  in  a  corner  of  the  saloon,  on  the 
.wall,  half  hidden  by  flowers,  were  hanging  some  implements 
of  war.  Great  beams  of  oak  crossed  overhead,  and  the  ceil 
ing  was  so  frescoed  that  it  looked  as  though  it  was  some  old 
ruin  overrun  with  ivy. 

People  were  lounging  here  and  there,  or  passing  up  and 
down,  or  taking  tea,  or  talking  by  twos  and  threes  in  a 
dreamy  and  silent  sort  of  a  way,  that  pleased  the  nervous  and. 
sensitive  artist  from  the  first ;  and,  contrary  to  his  fears,  he 


'404  The  One  Fair   Woman. 

soon  found  himself  perfectly  at  home.  He  seemed  to  fit  in 
there  from  the  first.  In  less  than  an  hour  he  felt  that  he  had 
known  that  place  and  these  people  all  his  life. 

He  looked  around  him,  and  he  saw  that  here  was  another 
and  a  superior  class  of  people  to  anything  he  had  seen  in 
Rome.  Here  was  a  Roman  Prince,  who  really  looked  and  be 
haved  the  gentleman — a  quiet  and  an  unpretending  man. 

There  was  a  Cardinal  over  in  the  centre  of  a  group  of  beau 
tiful  ladies  in  bright  colors,  and  away  back  yonder  in  a 
corner  out  of  the  light,  as  usual,  sat  the  good  Secretary  of  Le 
gation,  telling  over  the  points  of  his  last  novel  to  an  ancient 
princess  from  Germany. 

There  were  Generals  talking  of  war  in  the  Spanish  tongue, 
and  politicians  talking  of  finance  in  French,  and  Englishmen 
talking  art  in  their  own  tongue  ;  and  yet  all  this  was  as  quiet 
as  a  snow-fall. 

"  This  is  a  new  current  of  life,"  said  the  artist  to  himself, 
"  I  should  have  been  here  before."  Then  he  fell  to  thinking 
of  the  tall,  dark  beauty  who  had  moved  before  him  for  ever, 
who  was  moving  now  noiselessly  across  the  saloon,  looking  at 
him  just  the  least  bit  from  under  her  dark  sweeping  lashes  as 
she  passed,  and  he  asked  himself  how  long  he,  with  his  im 
pulsive  and  imperious  nature,  would  find  a  welcome  there. 

To  Marietta  this  was  a  paradise.  It  was  a  paradise  of 
noiseless  birds  and  of  dreams.  He  had  seen  society — enough 
of  it — but  it  had  never  pleased  him  in  any  form  before  en 
countered.  Sometimes  it  had  been  formal,  sometimes  stiff 
and  cold  and  corpse-like,  sometimes  noisy  and  turbulent  and 
loud.  This  was  peace  and  rest.  Verily  it  was  paradise. 

The  little  woman  was  there,  too  ;  the  busy,  bustling  Mrs. 
Bunch,  who  presided  at  the  top  of  the  intolerable  and  tor 
tuous  corkscrew  stairs,  in  the  noisy  little  menagerie  of  ani 
mals  from  all  parts  of  the  earth,  which  the  good  threadbare 
Secretary  of  Legation  had  called,  or  rather  miscalled,  heaven. 

"  Do  you  like  Roman  society  ?  "  said  a  spinster,  stirring 


A  New  Current  of  Life.  405 

her  cup  of  tea  by  the  side  of  Marietta,  and  at  the  same  time 
keeping  her  long  curls  swinging  and  twisting  round  and 
round  as  she  stirred  the  spoon. 

The  artist  did  not  have  time  to  answer,  for  the  spoon  kept 
going,  and  the  curls  kept  turning,  and  the  tongue  kept  on, 
and  all  together  and  all  at  once,  as  if  tongue  and  spoon  and 
curls  were  all  a  sort  of  machine  that  had  been  patented  as 
parts  of  a  wheel,  and  must  all  run  together  or  stop  together. 

"  Roman  society  is  mixed,  very  mixed.  I  came  here  and 
sat  down  on  the  Seven  Hills,  to  use  a  classical  quotation, 
thirty  years  ago."  Then  she  stopped  and  sighed ;  and  the 
spoon  and  the  curls  and  the  tongue  and  all,  to  the  artist's 
infinite  satisfaction,  all  stopped  together,  but  the  patent 
machine  suddenly  started  again.  "  I  was  but  a  child  then. 
O,  I  was  ever  so  small  you  know,  and  I  know  all  about 
Roman  society,  and  if  you  go  with  one  set  you  must  not  go 
with  another ;  and  if  you  belong  to  one  club  you  must  not 
enter  another ;  and  if  you  subscribe  to  one  church,  you  must 
expect  to  have  all  the  others  for  enemies  ;  for  there  is  the 
new  Baptist  Church — well,  they  sank  forty  feet  to  get  a  foun 
dation  for  it,  and  even  then  they  came  upon  a  beautiful 
mosaic  that  the  government  took  to  put  in  the  museum  ; 
forty  feet !  just  imagine  it ;  they  used  to  come  every  week  to 
get  subscriptions  for  sinking  their  foundation,  and  I  called 
it  the  sinking  fund.  Well,  I  gave  money  to  this  church  ;  and 
then  I  had  all  the  papists  for  enemies,  as  well  as  every  other 
church  in  the  world,  to  war  with,  and  I  was  nearly  ruined. 
Oh,  Rome  is  mightily  mixed,  the  people  are  so  split  up." 

"  But  you  have  not  the  Protestant  denominations  here  ?  " 

"  All,  everything,  even  to  the  howling  Methodists.  Why, 
they  came  here  from  the  States  and  opened  tents  away  oiit  on 
the,  Campagna  and  established  missions  there,  and  prayed  for 
the  destruction  of  the  Catholic  Church  and  the  death  of  the 
pope  for  a  whole  month  together,  and  then  fell  to  quarrelling 
among  themselves,  and  had  each  other  arrested  for  slander 


406  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

and  fraud,  and  all  the  ordinary  sins  and  crimes  that  you  can 
well  think  of." 

Of  all  intolerable  people  on  earth  there  are  none,  perhaps, 
half  so  terrible  as  persons  who  will  persist  in  talking  when 
they  ought  to  be  silent ;  when,  in  fact,  nobody  wants  to  hear 
them  talk  under  any  circumstances  or  at  any  time. 

The  safest  thing  to  do  is  to  be  silent  in  ninety-nine  cases 
out  of  a  hundred.  You  can  remember,  perhaps,  fifty  occa 
sions  in  your  life  when  you  have  said  too  much.  You  can 
not  remember  one  when  you  said  too  little.  You  may  spend 
a  whole  evening  a  silent  listener  in  society,  and  leave  every 
one  your  friend.  It  would  be  very  hard  to  do  that  much  if 
you  talked,  even  though  you  talked  like  an  angel. 

"  As  I  was  saying,"  began  the  spoon  and  the  tongue  and 
the  corkscrew  curls,  "  here  in  Rome  you  must  be  very  par 
ticular  what  you  do,  where  you  go,  who  you  mix  with,  and 
where  and  how  you  worship.  And  now,  Mr.  Murietta,  you 
will  pardon  me  for  what  I  am  about  to  say,  but  really  you 
are  to  some  entent  in  my  hands.  You  are  my  charge— my 
child — ha,  ha,  my  child  !  "  and  here  the  spoon  spun  around, 
followed  faster  and  faster  by  the  corkscrew  curls  and  the 
meddlesome  tongue.  "  I  am  sure  you  will  pardon  me,  but  if 
you  wish  to  get  on  in  Rome,  and  I  am  sure  you  want  to  get, 
on  in  the  '  Eternal  City,'  if  I  may  again  be  permitted  to  use 
a  classical  quotation — therefore,  I  say,  if  you  wish  to  get  on, 
you  must  be  careful  who  you  mix  with  in  Rome  or  whom  you 
speak  to.  And,  Mr.  Murietta,  if  you  wish  to  be  careful 
whom  you  speak  to,  allow  me  to  caution  you  with  respect  to 
one  lady,  one  person — ha,  ha  ! — one  person,  that  is  the 
'  comely  appellation,'  if  I  may  be  permitted  to  use  a  classical 
quotation " 

She  stopped  suddenly,  spoon  and  curls,  tongue  and  all,  as  if 
she  had  been  a  kind  of  clock  that  had  run  down.  Then,  as 
if  half  reviving,  she  said,  "  Yes,  with  respect  to  this  one  per 
son,  in  all  confidence,  if  you  expect  to  move  in  our  circle " 


A  New  Current  of  Life.  407 

Then  the  spoon  stopped,  and  the  tongue  and  the  curls,  and 
the  artist  sat  looking  at  the  little  machine  in  amazement, 
while  the  One  Fair  Woman,  who  had  all  the  time  been  silent, 
sat  looking  the  other  way,  and  tapping  on  the  soft  carpet 
with  her  foot,  as  if  nervous  and  annoyed. 

Then  the  spoon  and  the  curls  and  the  tongue  began  again, 
and  went  round  and  round  and  round,  as  if  winding  them- 

*  O 

selves  up  to  some  great  pitch ;  and  then,  leaning  a  little  for 
ward,  and  going  still  a  little  faster,  the  tongue  said 

"  You  understand  ?  " 

Marietta,  knitted  his  brows.     "I  do  not  understand." 

"  Well  then,  the  Countess  Edna " 

The  artist  arose.  He  stood  there  almost  trembling.  Then 
the  One  Fair  Woman  took  his  arm,  and  they  moved  away 
together  and  in  silence. 


CHAPTER  XLYII. 


THE    EARTHLY    PARADISE. 

E  wanted  to  fall  at  the  feet  of  this  dark 
silent  woman,  and  worship  her  as  he 
had  worshipped  her  in  an.  ideal  way 
for  all  his  life. 

They  sat  down  away  by  themselves 
by  the  side  of  a  table  with  photo 
graphs,  pictures,  and  minatures  in  oil. 
It  was  the  most  supreme  moment  of 
his  life. 

"  I  fear  you  do  not  sympathise 
greatly  with  my  art,"  stammered  the 
man  at  last,  looking  at  a  miniature  in 
stead  of  the  lady. 

"  Oh   yes,   I  do,"    answered    Annette.     "  I 
think  too  much  of  it.     I  am  all  the  time  wan 
dering  about  among  pictures  and   through  the 
old  homes  of  the  masters." 
"  How  delightful  !  "  said  Murietta,  recovering  himself  at 
once.     "  And,  do  you  know,  I  have  had  a  fancy  I  should 
like  to  see  the  land  of  Titian  ?     But  then  I  hear  it  is  so  hard 
to  reach." 

"  Well,  it  is  hard,"  said  Annette,  "  a  long,  hard  road  ; 
but  you  are  doubly  paid  for  your  trouble,  and  to  me  it  is  one 
of  the  sweetest  spots  in  Italy." 


The  Earthly  Paradise.  409 

"  But  you  have  not  been  to  Cadore  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  indeed,  oftentime." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  of  it  ?  will  you  tell  me  of  the  home  of 
the  great  good  man  and  master  ?  " 

The  soul  of  the  beautiful  lady  came  to  the  surface  like  a 
spirit  called  from  the  deep  by  a  magician,  and  the  great  eyes 
opened  and  dawned  upon  the  artist  like  a  new  sunrise.  He 
began  to  understand  her  now.  This  silent  woman,  she  too 
could  talk,  when  there  was  a  subject  that  touched  her  heart. 
Her  soul  was  of  another  atmosphere.  She  sailed  undiscovered 
seas.  The  gossip  of  a  town  had  not  even  the  dignity  of  her 
contempt. 

She  began  as  if  she  was  about  to  tell  a  fairy  tale  to  a  child. 
Perhaps  this  proud,  great  woman  thought  him  but  a  child. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  he  was  but  a  child. 

"  There  is  no  prettier  or  sweeter  dimple  in  all  the  fair  face 
of  mother  earth,  than  this  little  slope  or  half  valley,  where 
the  great  master  was  born,  and  where  he  spent  his  early 
youth.  And  he  knew  it  well,  for  it  is  told  of  him  that,  no 
matter  where  the  summer  found  him,  after  he  became 
famous,  even  up  to  the  year  of  his  death,  he  turned  to  the 
home  of  his  youth  for  his  holiday." 

Murietta  did  not  speak.  He  only  looked  at  her  ;  but  she 
seemed  to  understand  his  question,  even  though  he  had  not 
opened  his  lips. 

"  No — thanks  to  the  sharp,  fierce  spurs  of  the  Dolomite 
Peaks — you  cannot  reach  '  Titian's  Land,'  as  it  is  familiarly 
called  in  Italy,  by  rail.  You  can  get  two  hours  out  from 
Venice  towards  the  base  of  the  Venetian  Alps  by  rail,  and 
then  you  take  the  post  or  a  private  carriage,  and,  pushing  up 
the  Piave  river,  which  has  its  source  in  Titian's  Land,  for 
nearly  two  days,  you  come  upon  Cadore,  the  little  mountain 
town  where  the  great  master  was  born.  Hen;  are  great  splin 
tered  peaks  of  granite  all  around  you,' '  and  the  lady's  hand, 
Avent  up  in  the  air.  "  These  singular  formations  are  known  as 
18 


4io  The  One  Fair    Woman. 

the  Dolomite  Peaks.  They  look  very  much  as  if  a  mountain 
of  stone  had  been  set  up  on  another  mountain,  and  then  the 
Titans  had  come  by,  and  hacked  and  hewed  and  split  it  to  its 
base. 

He  leaned  forward  and  listened  in  silence.  "  Your  soul 
and  mine  stand  nearer  together  than  I  had  even  dared  to 
dream  of,"  he  was  saying  to  himself,  as  she  Avent  on  : 

"  Here,  also,  nearly  all  around  you,  are  great  banks  and 
slopes  of  snow,  for  you  are  in  the  heart  of  the  Venetian 
Alps;  but  there  are  no  snowy  peaks,  as  in  the  Rocky  moun 
tains  or  the  Sierras.  In  all  these  Alps  there  is  not  one  thing 
that  at  all  approaches  or  looks  like  the  most  insignificant  of 
the  snow-cones  and  peaks  of  the  West,  but  only  slopes  and 
slides  of  snow  on  the  side  of  some  ugly  broken  mountain. 

"  The  first  thing  here  in  Titian's  country  that  strikes  one 
who  is  at  all  familiar  with  his  great  pictures,  is  the  exact 
likeness  and  copy  of  these  mountains,  noticeable  in  all  his 
backgrounds.  Coming  directly  from  Venice,  on  my  first  visit 
where  I  had  been  haunting  '  Belle  Arti  '  for  a  month,  and 
feasting  on  his  great  pieces  every  day,  I  found  that  I  had 
seen  every  great  mountain  that  lay  around  me.  Even  in  the 
picture  of  Jerusalem,  where  the  Virgin  is  presented  to  the 
high  priesb — a  picture  counted,  you  know,  as  one  of  the  three 
greatest  pictures  in  the  world — you  see  there  the  exact  copy 
of  the  first  mountain  that  ever  met  the  master's  eyes,  even  to 
the  curling  clouds  that  are  for  ever  moving  about  its  sum 
mit,  even  to  the  camp-fire  of  the  half  wild  woodman  on  the 
mountain's  side. 

"  "What  a  smell  of  spruce  and  of  pine  in  the  air  !  "  The 
lady  looked  away,  as  if  she  stood  on  the  mountains  of  which 
she  spoke.  "  What  fragrance  of  flowers  and  of  new-mown 
hay  !  What  soft  sweet  songs  of  the  peasant-girls  at  work  in 
the  fields  as  we  drove  into  Oadore  !  For  it  was  harvest- 
time  in  the  Alps  when  first  I  was  there ;  and  all  the  sloping 
hills  below  the  snow  and  below  the  pines,  were  yellow  with 


The  Earthly  Paradise.  411 

fields  of  wheat  and  spotted  with  little  patches  of  grain,  no 
bigger  oftentimes  than  little  town-lots  !  And  there  is  not  a 
level  piece  of  land  in  all  the  country.  A  hard  country  in 
deed — and  yet  the  hardiest  and  happiest  people  in  all  Italy. 
£To  want  in  all  the  land — not  one  beggar  to  be  met  within  a 
month.  And  this  is  a  great  relief  to  one  coming  directly 
from  Venice. 

"  There  are  ten  little  towns  in  sight,  all  grouped  close 
together,  like  herds  on  the  hill  sides.  Indeed  they  could 
not  be  anywhere  else,  except  on  the  hill  tops  !  " 

She  went  on  as  if  talking  to  herself. 

"  What  a  tall,  sinewy,  and  splendid  type  of  people  the 
grand  old  painter  sprang  from  !  They  are  utterly  distinct 
from  the  Italians  of  the  valleys ;  and  it  is  noticeable  that  in 
Titian's  land  there  are  many  fair  and  yellow-haired  men  to  be 
found,  and  blonde  women — Titian's  types  of  beauty !  " 

There  was  a  rustle  in  the  room.  The  pretty  birds,  whose 
brilliant  plumage  ornamented  this  paradise,  were  fluttering 
up  and  down  and  hovering  about  the  floweVs  as  if  about  to 
take  flight.  The  old  General  had  come  down  from  out  his 
battle-cloud  of  smoke  for  a  moment,  and  was  marching 
across  the  saloon  to  join  his  daughter  and  the  artist. 

Then  a  beautiful  bird  sang  with  a  beautiful  voice,  while 
a  dozen  men  hung  about  her  like  bees  around  a  flower.  And 
these  old  and  familiar  words  were  in  her  song : — 

"  He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  desert  is  small, 
Who  dares  not  put  it  to  the  touch, 
And  win  or  lose  it  all. " 

The  little  woman  with  the  curls  and  cup  of  tea  and  spoon 
stood  looking  straight  at  Murietta  as  the  song  proceeded  ; 
but  he  was  looking  in  quite  another  direction.  Yet  all  the 
time  he  could  not  help  wondering  if  these  words  applied  at 
all  to  himself. 


412  The  One  Fair   Woman. 

As  soon  as  the  song  was  finished,  the  artist,  quietly  and 
unobserved,  reached  his  hand  to  the  hostess  and  her  daughter, 
and  withdrew. 

The  little  lady  in  corkscrew  curls,  who  had  cautioned  the 
artist  about  his  associates,  and  made  him  so  miserable,  way 
laid  him  as  he  went  out ;  but  as  she  had  set  down  her  tea 
cup,  she  had  no  spoon  to  set  her  tongue  going  with,  and  so 
stood  by  the  door  shaking  her  curls  in  vain,  and  in  a  helpless 
attempt  to  revive  her  lecture  about  his  conduct  and  the 
Countess  Edna. 

The  accomplished  and  polished  bit  of  chiselled  midnight 
opened  the  outer  door,  and  as  he  went  back  he  showed  at 
least  twenty  of  his  teeth  in  his  grin  of  delight. 

The  artist  was  very  happy  ;  and  he  gave  the  negro  enough 
to  make  him  smile  for  a  week. 

"  Take  care  of  her,  old  California  lion  !  Take  care  of  her, 
my  old  friend  of  the  Cordilleras  !  "  said  he,  as  he  again 
stepped  close  and  patted  and  stroked  the  stuffed  beast  on  the 
head.  Take  care  of  this  beautiful  lady,  like  a  true  Califor- 
nian  !  Fly  at  the  throat  of  any  man  who  dares  to  enter 
here  with  an  evil  thought !  Take  care  of  her,  my  savage 
and  tawny  old  friend !  " 

He  descended  the  broad  tufa  steps  between  the  walls  of 
flowers,  and  then  walked  down  the  Corso  at  peace  with  all 
the  world. 

"  Come  what  comes,"  he  cried,  as  he  went  to  rest  that 
night,  "  I  have  been  blessed  !  I  can  end  the  scene  now 
satisfied,  and,  dying,  say  that  God  has  been  good  to  me  ;  and 
that  I  have  been  for  once,  in  my  hard  and  eventful  life,  per 
fectly  happy  !  " 

And  then  he  slept. 

Poor  soul  !  he  had  not  stopped  to  consider  that  this 
lady  had  been  only  civil ;  that  she  had  not  said  a  word 
beyond  the  most  civil  expressions  ;  and  that,  notwithstand 
ing  the  kind  invitation  to  call  often  and  at  any  time,  he, 


The  Earthly  Paradise.  413 

among  the  multitude  of  her  friends,  might  be  forgotten  in  a 
month. 

He  slept,  and  he  dreamed  ;  and  his  dream  was  of  a  green 
serpent  swinging  from  a  cork  tree,  as  he  and  Annette  rode 
by  in  silence  under  it,  along  the  Sabine  Hills. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 


PEACE    IX    THE    FLOWEU-LAND. 


IME  went  by  with  Murietta 
like  a  dream,  or  a  great  strong 
stream  through  a  mighty  for 
est  that  is  silent  and  shadowy, 
and  sweet  with  the  smell  of 
pine  and  of  spices  and  of  costly 
gums. 

Night  was  a  delight,  and 
the  morning  brought  no  sense  of 
loneliness  or  of  weariness.     A  laborer 
is  weary  of  an  evening.      A  man  who 
toils  with  his  mind  and  makes  battle 
with  invisible  things  in  the  fields  of 
anywhere  that  have  not  name  or  place 
to  common  men,  is  weary  in  the  morn 
ing,  and  he  goes  forth  among  men  to 
try  to  labor  with  them  in  order  that  he  may  rest. 

This  man  was  resting  now,  perhaps,  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life.  He  took  something  more  than  a  morbid  interest  in 
men,  and  men's  affairs. 

He  called  often  at  the  palace  on  the  Corso,  and  was  always 
well  received.  Once  the  fair  woman,  Annette,  arose  from 
the  side  of  a  most  illustrious  gentleman  who  was  paying  her 


Peace  in  the  Flower-Land.  415 

court,  and  came  and  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the  artist  in  her 
easy,  careless  way,  and  began  again  to  talk  of  Titian,  as  on  the 
occasion  of  his  first  meeting  with  her  at  her  palace. 

This  filled  the  goblet  full.  Marietta  asked  no  more  at  the 
hand  of  man,  woman,  God. 

And  he  had  never  yet  whispered  a  word  of  love.  It  is  just 
possible  he  had  not  thought  of  it ;  nay,  it  is  very  probable. 
He  was  satisfied :  he  was  happy.  This  was  his  first  great 
happiness.  He  had  nothing  more  to  ask.  And  then  again, 
there  might  have  been  a  dormant  fear  deep  down  in  his  heart, 
in  that  fathomless  somewhere  where  action  is  born  of  in 
stinct,  a  fear  to  break  this  charmed  life  that  now  enveloped 
him. 

One  thing  is  certain  :  he  had  not  thought  of  marriage. 
This  is  remarkable,  but  it  is  very  true.  He  was  the  least  sel 
fish  of  men,  and  did  not  often  think  of  himself.  Yet  he  could 
not  have  endured  that  another  should  wed  her.  He  was 
willing  to  live  and  worship  her  as  she  was.  He  was  perfectly 
satisfied — satisfied  from  instinct,  not  from  reason.  The  truth 
is,  he  had  not  yet  come  to  reason  at  all  on  this  matter :  he 
did  not  want  to  do  that.  The  man  was  a  dreamer.  He  had 
come  upon  the  airy  gates  of  a  fairy  land  that  he  had  long 
dreamed  of  and  hoped  for.  The  gates  had  swung  open,  and 
he  had  entered,  and  found  it  even  more  delightful  and  full  of 
peace  than  his  imagination  had  pictured,  and  he  was  not  yet 
ready  or  willing  to  take  a  foot-rule  in  his  hand  and  proceed 
to  measure  it  off,  and  make  calculations,  and  to  count  the 
chances  of  making  it  his  own. 

Once,  on  an  evening  when  he  had  dropped  in  and  found 
her  all  alone,  save  with  her  own  family,  which  was  a  rare 
thing  indeed — he  saw  her,  while  he  sat  talking  with  the  old 
General,  who  looked  serenely  down  at  him  from  out  his  battle- 
cloud,  sitting  apart  and  alone  with  her  hands  pushed  out  and 
diawn  together  in  a  passionate  sort  of  a  manner,  her  black 
and  abundant  hair  as  if  it  was  ready  to  drop  its  great  folds 


4i 6  The  One  Fair   Woman. 

like  midnight  curtains  about  her  shoulders,  and  her  face  half 
turned  and  looking  back  over  her  shoulder. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  he  said  to  himself,  "  that  is  just  as  I 
have  painted  her  a  hundred  times  !  " 

She  was  not  looking  at  him ;  not  looking  at  anything. 
There  was  nothing  remarkable  in  it  all,  save  her  remarkable 
beauty,  outside  of  the  very  singular  fact,  that  this  was  exactly 
the  attitude  and  there  was  just  the  expression  that  he  had  so 
often  painted,  despite  his  repeated  efforts  to  paint  her  other 
wise. 

The  old  General  drew  back  his  face  when  he  found  he  was 
no  longer  the  object  of  the  artist's  interest  that  evening,  and 
drifted  away  on  his  battle-cloud  into  his  land  of  dreams. 

Without  designing  it,  without  even  knowing  it,  the  artist 
arose  and  passed  over  to  the  other  side,  and  stood  before  the 
beautiful  lady  as  she  sat  there  alone,  dreaming  and  looking 
anywhere. 

She  lifted  her  dark  sweeping  lashes,  smiled,  made  a  place 
beside  her  with  a  movement  of  her  hand,  and  without  a  word 
the  artist  sat  beside  her  on  the  lounge. 

"I  have  spoiled  a  picture,"  he  said  at  length. 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  grand,  still  way,  as  if  but  half 
awake,  as  if  it  was  hardly  worth  while  to  come  back  to  earth, 
or  to  speak  at  all,  or  to  do  anything  any  more  this  side  of 
paradise. 

"  I  spoiled  a  picture  for  the  world,  but  I  have  it  in  iny 
heart.  Hung  on  the  walls  of  memory,  your  face  as  I  saw 
you  now,  as  I  sat  there,  shall  remain  as  long  as  I  shall  love 
the  beautiful,"  said  he,  with  earnest  and  honest  enthusiasm. 

She  heard  this  awkward  compliment  as  one  who  knew  the 
man  meant  just  what  he  said,  and  as  one,  the  one  perhaps 
who  had  the  good  sense  to  not  profess  to  be  disturbed  by  it, 
or  to  consider  it  out  of  place  or  nature  in  any  inspect. 

"  If  you  would  only  paint  it,"  she  said  with  a  touch  of 
earnestness. 


Peace  in  the  Flower-Land.  417 

"  But  I  have  painted  it.  I  have  painted  it,  the  same  face, 
position,  expression,  dress,  all,  exactly — " 

The  artist  found  he  had  risen  suddenly,  and  was  all  flushed 
and  excited,  as  the  silent  and  dreamy  old  General  laid  his 
hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  stood  there  as  if  to  listen,  or  in 
a  careless  and  casual  way  take  part  in  the  conversation. 

"I  was  just  saying,"  continued  Murietta,  with  some  em 
barrassment,  "  I  was  just  saying  that  I  had  spoiled  a  beauti 
ful  picture,  when  I  came  up  and  disturbed  the  lady — your 
daughter,  just  now." 

"Ah  !  and  I,  fear  I  may  have  spoiled  something  more 
than  a  picture  by  disturbing  you,"  said  the  old  General,  as 
he  quietly  noted  the  artist's  embarrassment,  and  then  went 
back  into  his  battle-cloud  and  again  drifted  away,  in  body 
at  least,  and  perhaps  in  spirit. 

Murietta,  conscious  that  he  had  said  too  much,  and  been  at 
least  impetuous,  sat  down  again  beside  the  lady  and  was 
silent.  But  she  was  now  too  much  interested  to  let  the  sub 
ject  drop,  and  again  began  about  the  picture. 

"And  you  really  have  painted  a  fancy  sketch  or  something, 
with  which  you  have  associated  my  name  ?" 

"  Not  your  name,  lady,  your  face,"  said  he  earnestly. 

"  And  then  you  will  let  me  see  it?" 

"  Would  you  care  to  see  it  ?" 

"  Would  I  care  to  see  it  ?  Do  you  not  know  that  I  am 
human  ?  Nay,  I  am  not  only  human,  but  I  am  also  a  woman, 
and  would  take  a  woman's  delight  in  looking  at  any  picture 
that  even  resembles  me,  whether  it  was  meant  for  me  or 
not." 

"  This  was   meant   for   you,  and   for  you   only,"  said   he 
thoughtfully. 

"  Then  I  shall  see  it  to-morrow.  You  will  send  it  to  me 
to-morrow.  Or  shall  I  drive " 

"  No,  no,  no,"  he  answered,  excitedly. 

"  Do  not  drive  to  my    studio.     I  have    no    studio  fit  to 
18* 


4i 8  The  One  Fair    Woman. 

receive  you  in.  I  am  an  idle  looker-on  in  Rome.  I  am  not 
at  work." 

"  But  you  have  done  this  one  picture  in  Rome  ?" 

"  In  Rome,  in  Naples,  in — " 

The  dark  eyes  opened  wide  and  wondering,  and  looked  at 
the  man  inquiringly  and  earnestly. 

"  Ah,  I  understand  you  now,"  she  said,  "  you  have  been  at 
work  at  this  picture  some  time,  and  did  a  part  of  it  at 
Naples,  and  a  part  of  it  here." 

The  artist  had  never  been  schooled  in  the  fashionable  and 
accomplished  art  of  lying.  Here  he  had,  without  intending 
it,  aroused  the  beautiful  woman's  curiosity,  and  he  saw  that 
it  was  not  to  be  satisfied  by  an  evasion.  Should  he  tell  her  the 
truth,  the  whole  blunt  history  ?  He  was  very  much  em 
barrassed.  Had  he  had  the  least  bit  of  cunning  in  him  or 
design,  he  might  have  told  with  good  effect  just  so  much  of  it 
as  served  his  purpose  and  no  more,  and  then  at  once  pro 
duced  the  picture,  soiled  and  pierced  as  it  was.  with  splendid 
and  possibly  telling  effect. 

But  no,  the  man  thought  only  of  his  secret,  the  secret  of 
his  love.  He  did  not  stop  to  reason.  He  could  not  have 
told  why,  but  somehow  he  feared  that  she  would  be  offended 
or  annoyed  by  his  confession  of  his  love  for  her  or  an  hun 
dredth  part  of  it.  So  much  for  the  poor  man's  knowledge  of 
woman.  As  if  any  woman  could  be  offended  at  such  a  thing  ! 

The  situation  was  very  embarrassing  for  him.  He  reached, 
pulled  a  blossom  from  a  rhododendron,  as  if  he  had  been 
walking  in  a  forest,  and  began  to  pull  it  to  pieces,  while  his 
eyes  were  fixed  on.  the  floor. 

The  lady  laughed  in  the  quietest  kind  of  a  way,  and 
reached  her  hand  and  took  the  blossom  which  he  was  tearing 
to  pieces  from  out  his  fingers,  and  arranged  the  crumpled 
leaves,  and  held  it  carefully,  as  if  it  had  to  her  a  value. 

"  Then  I  am  to  see  this  picture  to-morrow  ?  You  will 
send  it  to  me  here  ?  " 


Peace  in  the  Flower-Land.  419 

"  But  it  is  not  finished.  That  is,  it  is  not  fit  to  be  seen. 
It  is  soiled,  it  is  cut  and  warped  and — "  He  stopped  sud 
denly.  He  saw  that  he  was  once  more  exciting  a  woman's 
curiosity. 

"  Why,  how  strange  !  "  she  exclaimed,  holding  up  the  little 
flowers  and  still  arranging  the  torn  leaves  and  petals,  "what 
a  fate  and  what  a  misfortune  my  picture  has  met  with  to  be 
sure.  You  certainly  have  had  no  care  for  it,  else  it  would 
not  now  be  soiled  and  warped  and  wounded,  and  goodness 
knows  what !  Come,  you  are  to  tell  me  of  this  picture." 

"  I  entreat  you,  lady,  not  to-night.  I  am  going  now.  I 
shall  speak  to  your  parents,  and — " 

He  gave  her  his  hand  hastily,  and,  not  at  all  satisfied 
with  himself,  was  about  to  pass  through  the  door  and  into 
the  black  and  ebon  block  of  chiselled  midnight,  when  An 
nette,  standing  before  him,  said — , 

"  But  you  really  have  a  picture  painted  here  in  Rome 
which  you  say  resembles  me  as  I  sat  yonder  this  evening  ?  " 

"  It  is  an  exact  and  perfect  picture  of  you,  if  ever  I  drew 
a  perfect  picture  or  a  straight  line.  It  is  equally  true  that 
the  picture  has  a  history,  and  true  also  that  it  is  now  not  fit 
to  be  seen." 

"And  am  I  never  to  see  this  picture,  which  no  doubt  any 
one,  a  stranger,  a  peasant,  anyone  passing,  can  drop  in  and 
see  ?  " 

"  You  are  to  see  it.  You  shall  see  it  if  you  will  so  honor 
me,  and  it  shall  be  yours  if  you  will  receive  it  as  a  gift,  but 
not  till  it  is  repaired  and  repainted." 

"  Well,  I  must  practice  patience,  I  suppose.  But  I  shall 
count  the  days  that  lie  between  me  and  the  time  I  am  to  re 
ceive  it.  But  you  are  not  to  repaint  it.  That  will  spoil  the 
interest,  however  much  you  may  improve  the  picture. 
Promise  me  you  will  not  re-touch  it.  It  is  but  a  new  work, 
and  if  it  has  been  once  finished,  let  it  remain  just  as  it  is. 
Promise  me  that." 


420  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  Yes,  I  promise  you  not  to  re-touch  it,  save  to  cover  up  a 
scar  in  the  breast." 

"A  scar  in  the  breast  !  "  The  glorious  eyes  were  again 
wide  open  with  wouuder. 

"  I  implore  you,  do  not  push  me  to  the  wall.  I  am  not 
gifted  with  the  art  of  escaping  from  the  responsibility  of  my 
own  blunt  statements.  Please  leave  something  of  the  story 
to  the  future." 

"  To  the  future  it  is,"  she  laughed,  as  she  again  noticed 
his  embarrassment.  "  Pretty  stories  will  always  keep,  and, 
like  good  wine,  be  none  the  worse  for  it.  But  when  am  I  to 
have  the  picture  ?  Come,  we  will  make  a  covenant.  I  do 
promise  and  agree,  as  the  law  has  it,  to  not  ask  you  for  the 
little  story  that  I  am  dying  to  know,  till  you  are  ready  to 
tell  it ;  on  condition,"  and  here  she  smiled  and  looked  very 
knowing,  "  that  you  send  me  this  picture  within  a  given 
time." 

"  It  is  a  covenant,"  he  said,  extending  his  hand,  "  and  I 
promise  to  send  you  the  picture  at  the  end  of  a  month." 

"At  the  end  of  a  month  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  why,  we  shall 
be  on  Lake  Como." 

"And  you  are  going  to  Como  for  the  summer,  and  soon  ?  " 

"  We  are  going  to  Como.  We  start  soon,  but  are  going  to 
travel  slowly,  take  in  the  little  towns  011  the  Adriatic,  the 
Republic  of  San  Marino,  and  possibly  Venice,  and  shall 
reach  Como  about  the  time  everybody  else  leaves  it,  in  July  ; 
and,  to  get  back  to  a  subject  of  interest,  how  am  I  to  get  my 
picture  ?  " 

"  I  will  have  this  picture  sent  me  at  Como.  I  will  also  be 
in  Como  in  July.  I  will  take  pleasure,  an  untold  pleasure, 
in  presenting  it  to  you  there,  and  telling  you  the  whole  story 
of  its  creation." 

"  How  delightful !     Would  that  it  were  July  !  "  she  ex 
claimed. 
•    "  Delightful !  you  will  be  disappointed.     But  I  shall  keep 


Peace  in  the  Flower-Land.  421 

the  covenant.  And  now,  good-night :  remember,  we  meet  at 
Como." 

There  was  a  look  of  earnestness  in  his  face  as  he .  passed 
out,  saying  to  himself,  "  We  meet  at  Como.  Shall  Como  be 
my  fate — my  Philippi  ?  Well,  well,  I  shall  tell  her  the 
story  of  the  picture  there,  and  the  story  of  the  roses  in  her 
path,  and  then  it  may  be  our  souls  will  stand  together  in  the 
pure  white  light  on  the  hills  of  God  ! " 

"  Take  care  of  her,  my  California  lion.  Show  your  teeth, 
my  friend,  to  any  man  who  dares  to  hold  an  evil  thought  of 
her."  He  tapped  the  beast  on  the  head,  opened  the  negro's 
mouth,  and  saw  two  perfect  rows  of  teeth  for  a  few  francs, 
and  went  down  the  stairs  full  of  hope  and  the  future. 


CHAPTER   XLIX. 


A    MAN   FOR    MANHOOD  S    SAKE. 


T  had  now  been  half  a  year 
since  Marietta  had  set  foot  in 
Rome,  and  he  began  heartily 
to  tire  of  the  town.  He  was 
now  particularly  anxious  to  get 
outside  the  sultry  walls  of 
the  city,  since  he  knew  that 
Annette  was  going,  and  almost 
at  once. 

It  had  now  been  weeks  since 

he  had  seen  the  pink  Countess.  What  had  be 
come  of  her  ?  He  was  preparing  to  leave  Rome. 
Should  he  go  away  without  seeing  the  woman 
who  had  lightened  many  a  dark  and  lonesome 
day  of  his  life  in  that  strange  city  of  heat  and 
cold — of  contradictions  ? 
He  had  seen  the  Count  but  seldom  of  late,  and  he,  the 
Count,  seemed  but  ill  satisfied,  even  though  the  old  Admiral 
blustered  about  him  and  asserted  himself  with  the  same  bold 
look  of  assertion  which  he  had  always  shown  from  the  first. 
The  Count,  however,  had  the  same  gentleness  of  manner, 
and  always  showed  that  culture  and  politeness  which  seems 
BO  inseparable  from  an  Italian,  whenever  his  and  the  lines  of 
the  artist  crossed,  either  in  the  streets  of  the  city  or  the  sa 
loons  of  fashion. 


A  Man  for  Manhoods  Sake.          423 

It  was  now  June,  and  Rome  was  sultry  as  Midsummer. 
The  fountains  plashed  and  played  all  over  the  town,  and  the 
streets  were  kept  running  with  fresh  water,  and  all  the  place 
was  hung  with  awnings  and  canvas,  as  if  it  had  been  the 
deck  of  one  mighty  ship.  Yet  Rome  was  awfully  sultry, 
and  people  were  pouring  out  of  every  gate  that  opened  to 
the  north  in  the  direction  of  the  Alps  and  the  Apennines. 

Carlton,  too,  was  anxious  to  get  away.  He  was  running 
all  over  the  town,  not  with  the  Admiral,  who,  it  seems  had 
more  than  once  approached  him  on  the  subject  of  making 
him  a  member  of  the  Brothers  of  the  Altar,  as  he  had 
Murietta,  but  with  the  Count,  who  now  evidently  looked 
upon  him  with  more  favor  than  he  did  before,  and  also 
with  sti-angers.  If  any  one  knew  what  was  going  on  in 
town,  Carlton  probably  knew  it,  for  he  was  everywhere, 
talking  with  every  one,  drinking  wine  to-day,  and  reforming 
to-morrow. 

Everybody  moved  under  canvas.  The  streets  of  Rome  were 
one  mass  of  moving  umbrellas.  If  a  peasant  brought  a  goat 
into  town  to  be  milked  for  your  coffee,  as  was  and  is  the 
custom,  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  he  brought  an 
umbrella  along  to  lead  it  back  under  to  the  Sabine  Hills. 

"  We  must  get  out  of  this,"  cried  Carlton,  from  under  his 
full  sail  of  canvas  one  morning  in  June,  to  Murietta,  "  there 
is  nothing  remaining  in  Rome  now  but  the  cats  and  dogs  and 
goats  and  peasants,  and  a  few  of  the  old  tried  settlers.  Let 
us  get  out — flee  to  the  mountains." 

"  I  am  with  you  in  the  spirit,  but  may  not  be  in  the  flesh, 
I  fear  for  a  time  yet." 

"And  why  not?  You  remember  our  covenant  to  blow 
away  to  Venice  together,  do  you  not  ?  "  answered  Carlton,  as 
he  took  a  whole  handful  of  roses  from  a  pretty  peasant  girl, 
and  began  to  tear  them  to  pieces  to  inhale  the  odor. 

"  Aye,  our's  was  a  covenant  man  with  man,"  replied  the 
artist,  as  he  also  took  a  bunch  of  roses  from  the  pretty  girl's 


424  The  One  Fair   Woman. 

basket,  "  but  you  remember  I  promised  a  lady,  the  Countess, 
to  remain  in  Rome  till  her  father  came  to  her. 

"  Then,  if  that  is  all,"  laughed^  Carlton,  as  he  scattered  the 
flowers  at  the  feet  of  a  bare-legged  peasant-girl,  who  showed 
him  her  pretty  teeth  as  she  passed,  "  you  might  have  left 
Rome  a  week  ago." 

"  A  week  ago  !  " 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  fellow.  You  might  have  gone  away 
into  the  Alps  to  reform,  fully  a  week  ago ;  for  her  father 
has  been  here  at  least  a  week,  and  I  have  been  with  him  a 
great  deal,  and  have  talked  with  him  about  his  unfortunate 
daughter,  and  have  really  almost  shed  tears  with  the  little 
white-headed  old  patriarch,  for  it  seems  he  has  lost  his  only 
son  somewhere  in  Italy,  by  brigands  or  assassins,  and  now 
his  poor  daughter  is  mad,  and  does  not  even  know  him." 

"  Mad  !  and  does  not  know  him  ?  "  Murietta  went  close 
up  to  Carlton,  and  took  him  by  the  arm  as  he  threw  his  roses 
to  the  ground.  "  Gods !  what  have  I  been  doing  for  this 
month  past  ?  It  does  seem  to  me  that  I  am  sometimes  mad 
myself.  I  get  in  grooves.  I  get  in  a  river  with  deep  banks, 
and  float  down  and  cannot  see  out.  I  see  nothing  but  my 
self  ! " 

"  "Well,  but  she  is  no  worse.  She  simply  will  not  see  her 
father ;  and  besides,  the  doctor  forbids  that  she  shall  be  dis 
turbed.  The  Count,  I  assure  you,  is  nearly  broken-hearted. 
And  then,  you  know  she  is  not  a  Catholic,  and  that  disturbs 
him  greatly.  The  poor  good  fellow,  you  know,  is  appre 
hensive  that  she  may  die  or  go  utterly  mad,  and  not  be  pre 
pared  for  the  better  world." 

There  were  wrinkles  on  the  brow  of  Murietta  as  he  listened 
to  this.  Then  he  began  very  solemnly,  as  he  still  held  on  to 
the  arm  of  his  friend,  and  looked  him  in  the  face. 

"  Have  you  seen  the  Countess  at  any  time  within  the  last 
few  weeks  ?  " 

"  Not   since  I    saw   you    with   her,  my    dear   fellow,"  he 


A  Man  for  Manhood's  Sake.          425 

answered,  tapping  the  stones  with  his  foot  and  shifting  his 
umbrella  from  right  to  left. 

"Has  any  one  seen  her,  do  you  suppose?  Have  you 
spoken  to  her  father  about  the  possibility  of  her  being  locked 
up  by  that  cunning  Admiral  and  designing  priests,  and " 

"  Tut !  tut  !  Now  look  here.  Do  you  suppose  Rome  is  a 
den  of  brigands  and  kidnappers,  and  men  who  could  or  would 
lock  up  a  lady  and  keep  her  from  her  father  ?  I  tell  you, 
you  are  wild.  You  are  as  mad  as  a  March  hare.  At  first 
you  thought  her  husband  a  sort  of  moral  or  immoral  Blue 
Beard,  and  you  were  going  to  storm  the  castle  and  set  her  at 
liberty.  Then  you  waited  till  her  father  came  upon  the  field. 
And  now,  even  now,  you  fancy  that  husband,  father, 
children,  all  are  wrong,  and  you  alone  are  right,  and  like 
another  crazy  Don  Quixote,  you  propose  to  ride  a  tilt  against 
the  world's  windmill  !  " 

Marietta  began  to  doubt  his  own  judgment.  He  felt  that 
something  was  wrong.  He  was  almost  certain  of  that  in  his 
own  mind ;  but  how  to  correct  it,  or  how  to  proceed  without 
doing  more  harm  than  good,  he  did  not  know.  He  wanted 
to  see  the  Countess  to  say  good-bye.  He  was  perfectly  cer 
tain  that  she  would  know  him  and  be  glad  to  see  him.  Then 
he  reflected  a  moment,  as  he  took  the  arm  of  Carlton,  and 
they  moved  down  the  street  under  the  canvas,  and  remember 
ing  that  she  said  she  would  send  for  him  when  the  hour  came 
that  she  should  need  him,  and  remembering  that  she  had  not 
sent  for  him,  and  reviewing  the  whole  ground,  he  stopped, 
looked  his  companion  in  the  face,  and  said, — 

"  I  am  ready  to  go.  We  will  leave  Rome  together  to 
morrow." 

"  Good !  "  cried  Carlton,  "  we  will  leave  Rome  to-mor 
row.  You  see,  my  dear  boy,"  he  continued,  "  if  the 
Countess  is  sane,  and  will  not  or  does  not  care  to  see  her 
father,  why,  of  course,  she  does  not  need  you  or  your  assis 
tance  or  your  presence.  But  if  she  is  not  sane,  as  the  Count 


426  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

and  the  doctor  and  the  Admiral  say,  and  cannot  see  her  father, 
why,  of  course,  she  cannot  you.  You  know,  my  dear  boy,  I 
am  disposed  to  humor  your  whims,  whatever  they  may  be — 
just  for  the  sake  of  the  pleasure  of  your  company  in  a  gondola 
at  Venice  ;  but  turn  this  case  to  any  light  you  like,  and  the 
picture  cannot  be  improved  by  any  cunning  tint  of  yours." 

"  I  am  satisfied,"  sighed  Murietta,  "  yet  I  am  broken  up  by 
the  thought  that  this  woman  must  remain  here  in  the  intoler 
able  heat  of  lonesome  Home  the  merry  summer  through.  It 
will  break  her  too  delicate  thread  of  life.  I  shall  never  see 
the  beautiful  and  most  mournful  face  any  more !  " 

"  Beautiful  she  is  indeed,  my  friend,"  answered  Carlton, 
"and  I  now  understand,  or  at  least  feel  certain,  that  whatever 
Rome  may  have  said  against  her,  Rome  is  now  sorry  for  it 
and  sympathises  deeply  with  her  misfortune.  And  for  my 
own  part,  I  tell  you  that  I  knew  from  the  first  and  all  the 
time  that  she  was  as  pure  as  the  snow  of  the  Alps  !  " 

"  Give  me  your  hand.  God  pity  the  poor  dear  lady,"  said 
Murietta,  solemnly,  as  they  stood  together  with  clasped  hands, 
"  God  pity  and  protect  the  poor  dear  Countess,  the  sad  and 
beautiful  lady  ;  and  God  pardon  me  for  any  wrong,  real  or 
imaginary,  that  I  may  have  done  her,  for  we  shall  never  meet 
any  more  !  " 


CHAPTER  L. 


GOOD-BYE,  TARPEIAN    ROCK. 


VERY  to-morrow  is  an  un 
read  romance.  When  that 
to-morrow  means  farewells, 
journeys,  new  lands,  faces, 
scenes,  it  has  for  us  a  singular 
interest,  and  takes  hold  of  us 
and  fills  the  mind  with  a  con 
cern  akin  to  sorrow.  No  man 
goes  upon  a  journey  without 
growing  older. 

The  two  friends  parted  ;  and  soon  the  artist, 
full  of  thought  and  hopes  and  plans,  was  pack 
ing  up  his  little  store  of  luggage  in  his  two 
little  cells  on  the  side  of  the  Tarpeian  Rock. 

When  all  was  done,  he  rang  and  pulled  un 
til  he  had  pulled  one  of  the  dark  and  shadowy 
little  ladies  into  his  presence.  He  gave  her  a  seat  and  then 
proceeded  to  set  the  other  chairs  in  a  row  beside  her.  They 
came,  and  how  kind  and  beautiful  they  were,  and  how  they 
did  talk — all  at  once,  and  deplored  the  sad  separation  as  an 
event  big  with  consequence. 

Then  the  good  old  Prince  came  shuffling  in,  with  the  air  of 


428  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

a  man  who  feels  that  he  is  no  longer  a  creature  without  a 
place  or  a  niche  in  the  statuary  of  the  world.  He  was  just 
a  little  bit  stiff,  just  a  little  bit  better  dressed,  arid  only  the 
least  bit  more  the  Prince  in  his  manner,  from  having  his  new 
shop  on  the  Corso,  and  his  son-in-law,  his  openly-acknow 
ledged  son-in-law,  an  officer  in  the  army  of  regenerate  Italy. 

Then  the  Count  himself  came  in,  and  sat  down  and  talked 
in  a  kind  and  contented  manner,  just  as  if  he  never  had  been 
a  member  of  the  Brothers  of  the  Altar,  and  just  as  if  he 
never  in  his  life  had  aspired  to  the  hand  of  an  American 
heiress,  while  his  own  wife,  a  young  and  beautiful  Countess, 
lived  in  the  very  city  and  saw  his  face  every  day  of  his  life, 
and  even  consented  to  his  contemptible  sin. 

The  cool  composure  of  these  people  iu  their  cunning  plots 
and  villanies  has  no  counterpart  outside  of  the  serene  and 
ever  placid  Chinaman. 

And  yet  these  people  here,  the  old  Prince  and  his  four 
daughters,  were  not  only  very  delightful  people,  but  they 
were  really  honest  people  at  heart,  and  kind  and  affectionate. 

They  looked  upon  such  practices  for  obtaining  money  as 
legitimate  commercial  enterprises;  and  when  they  failed  they 
simply  considered  it  a  bad  investment,  and  so  sat  down  un 
complaining  and  undisturbed  in  conscience. 

Such  is  the  result  of  a  religion  where  indolent  monks  are 
keepers  of  the  consciences  of  the  people,  and  where  they  are 
forgiven  their  sins  for  a  price  ! 

The  artist  was  pleasantly  disappointed  when  the  Prince 
did  not,  according  to  the  custom  of  Italy,  and  France  as 
well,  bring  in  a  long  bill  for  damages  to  the  apartments ;  and, 
in  consideration  of  this  forbearance,  he  left  his  carpets  and 
the  like  to  the  four  pretty  ladies  sitting  in  a  row  against  the 
wall  before  him. 

He  rolled  up  his  picture  carefully,  wrote  the  address  and 
the  directions,  and  directed  it  to  be  forwarded  to  him  at 
Como. 


Good-Bye,  Tarpeian  Rock.  429 

The  ladies  gave  him  their  hands  and  expressed  their  grati 
tude,  and  then,  in  the  prettiest  Italian  way  possible,  turned 
aside,  and  silently  shed  tears. 

The  Count,  himself,  petty  villain  as  he  was,  really  felt 
grateful  and  kindly  towards  the  stranger  as  he  took  his  ex 
tended  hand,  and  promised  if  ever  it  was  in  his  power  to 
serve  him  he  would  certainly  do  so.  The  man  had  been 
conquered  by  kindness. 

"  I  have  already,"  began  the  Count,  as  he  held  the  hand 
of  the  artist,  "  I  mean  we  have  already,"  and  here  he  looked 
at  the  pretty  Countesses  who  had  now  risen  up,  and  were 
standing  in  a  line,  "  done  you  a  very  considerable  favor, 
which,  now  that  you  are  about  to  leave  us  and  we  may  not 
meet  again,  you  may  as  well  know." 

"  I  should  be  delighted  to  know  one  or  two  things,  if  you 
may  tell  me  without  too  much  hazard,"  answered  the  artist, 
half  evading  th  e  proffered  narration. 

"  And  I  shall  be  delighted  to  tell  you,  if  possible." 

"  Well,  then,  who  placed  Giuseppe,  the  man  who  was  once 
set  apart  to  assassinate  the  King,  and  whom  I  have  often  seen 
with  the  old  Admiral,  under  the  blue  Madonna  there,  to 
watch  me  and  my  movements  ?  " 

The  ladies  looked  at  each  other  with  horror  and  terror  in 
every  feature.  The  Italian  officer  turned  pale,  and  fairly 
trembled  till  his  sword  rattled  in  its  sheath.  He  did  not 
open  his  lips,  but  looked  down  to  the  carpet  in  silence. 

"  Well,  then,"  continued  the  artist,  letting  go  the  hand  and 
stepping  back,  "  I  now  understand  you.  You  are  the  same 
villain  as  before.  Your  good  fortune  has  not  changed  your 
nature.  You  are  simply  resting  on  your  laurels,  eating  up 
the  money  the  good  and  brave-hearted  little  Californian 
threw  in  the  way  of  this  family,  and,  when  that  is  finished, 
you  will  be  spreading  other  nets.  You  will  pardon  me,  my 
subtle  Count ;  you  see,  you  have  kept  much  of  this  from  these 
gentle  people  here,  who  look  up  to  you  as  a  head  and  leader, 


43°  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

and  it  is  well  enough  that  I  remind  you  of  your  sins,  and  let 
them  see  what  you  have  been  doing,  so  that  they  may  know 
what  you  are  equal  to." 

The  Count  bowed  his  head  like  a  reed  in  a  gale.  He  knew 
this  would  soon  blow  over,  and  he  had  no  ambition  to  lift  his 
limbs  like  an  oak  and  provoke  the  storm  to  its  full  strength, 
or  invoke  mai'tyrdom. 

"  You  can  serve  me,"  the  artist  went  on  bitterly,  "  in  still 
another  way." 

The  Count  ventured  to  lift  his  eyes,  and  Murietta  went  on. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  where  the  doctor  is  all  this  time, 
and  what  has  become  of  yoiir  companion,  the  bold  Prince 
Trawaska.  Yea,  more,  I  should  like  to  know  what  you  have 
done  with  my  countrywoman,  the  Countess  Edna,  and  to 
know  what  her  disappearance,  and  the  disappearance  of  the 
doctor  and  the  Prince " 

The  Count  threw  up  his  hands,  as  men  do  in  the  West, 
as  a  sign  of  surrender.  The  shot  had  gone  to  the  heart. 
The  Count  staggered  back,  and  almost  fell  into  the  arms  of 
the  women. 

"  You  will  not  answer  ?  Well,  I  have  no  other  favor, 
no  other  questions  to  ask  you.  But  you  must  remember, 
Count,  that  I  understand  you  now  perfectly  ;  and  you  must 
also  remember  that  the  Saxons  often  smile  at  your  villanies 
and  the  practices  of  your  cunning  people,  rather  than  take  the 
trouble  to  punish  them." 

The  artist  took  up  his  hat,  bowed  to  the  ladies,  looked  at  the 
luggage,  said  "  Hotel  Russe,"  and  went  down  the  narrow  stone 
steps,  down  under  the  blue  Madonna  with  the  perpetual  lamp 
at  her  feet,  and  then  xip  the  Via  Montenare  for  the  last  time, 
and  for  the  last  time  passed  out  from  under  the  shadows  of 
the  Tarpeian  Rock. 


CHAPTER  LI. 


FAREWELL,    FAIR    WOMAN. 


HE  good-natured  African 
swung  the  door  of  the  palace 
very  wide,as  the  artist  entered 
to  say  farewell.  And  the  good 
old  General  was  good  enough 
to  drift  a  long  way  off,  even  to 
the  other  side  of  the  great 
saloon,  on  his  cloud  of  battle- 
smoke,  as  he  took  her  out 
stretched  hand,  when  he  said  he  had 
come  to  say  good-bye. 

Very  beautiful  was  she  that  night, 
and  wai-m  as  sun  and  summer  weather. 
She  talked  of  Titian,  as  they  stood 
there,  and  of  great  men  and  of  great 
artists,  but  never  a  word  was  said  of 
the  petty  strifes  of  life,  or  of  the  little  world  around  her.  She 
was  all  that  she  had  seemed  to  this  man  at  first.  She  was  as 
great  and  as  good  as  she  had  ever  appeared,  and  as  he  had 
imagined  her  all  the  years  that  he  had  dreamed  of  her  and 
pictured  her,  before  he  knew  she  was  yet  upon  the  eai'tli. 


432  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

The  Countess  had  driven  him  a  thousand  miles  from  this 
One  Fair  Woman  in  a  month.  He  had  returned  to  her  in  a 
moment,  and  was  now  kneeling  at  her  feet. 

"  You  have  not  forgotten  the  picture   you  pi'omised  me?" 

''Forgotten  it!  Lady,  I  have  thought  of  little  else,  save 
of  that  picture  and  the  original,  since  I  last  saw  your  face. 
Do  not  fear ;  the  picture  is  yours. 

"  I  shall  expect  it  at  Coino." 

"  I  promise  you  the  picture  is  yours  ;  and,  besides  that,  it 
shall  not  be  touched  further  than  to  repair  a  rent  in  the  can 
vas.  But,  in  the  meantime,  would  it  be  too  much  to  ask  you 
for  a  photograph  ?  " 

"  And  so  you  intend  to  paint  me  from  a  photograph  ?  " 

"  There  !  You  see  what  a  simpleton,  what  a  helpless,  fool 
ish  fellow  I  am.  Always  and  for  ever  being  misunderstood, 
because  I  have  not  the  art  and  the  address  of  men  of  the 
world.  Permit  me  to  repeat  that  the  picture,  such  as  it  is,  is 
finished.  I  asked  for  a  photograph  as  a  token,  a  keepsake, 
something  to  call  mine,  and  to  remind  me  of  this  beautiful 
home  and  its  more  beautiful  queen." 

"  I  believe  you  entirely  ;  and  to  convince  you — here,  I  will 
give  you  a  picture,  a  photograph  taken  in.  a  dress  represent 
ing  the  unhappy  queen  whose  name  I  bear." 

The  lady,  so  saying,  took  up  a  pen,  and  drawing  a  large  pho 
tograph  from  an  album,  she  wrote  in  a  bold,  clear,  hurried  hand 
her  name  in  full  at  the  bottom  of  the  picture,  and  on  the  re 
verse  side  the  date  and  the  city.  Then  she  handed  it  to  the 
artist,  who  took  it  eagerly,  and  turned  it  up  to  the  light. 

"Good  heavens!  It  is  just  the  picture  that  I  have 
painted." 

The  artist  said  this  with  a  wild  earnestness  that  for  a  mo 
ment  half  frightened  the  beautiful  woman.  But,  soon  recov 
ering  herself,  she  smiled  and  said.  "  You  mean  that  it  is 
exactly  like  the  picture  you  intend  to  paint  ?  " 

"  Lady,  it  is  the  picture  that  I  have  painted.     It  is  as  I 


Farewell,  Fair  Woman.  433 

have  always  seen  you,  looking  back  at  me,  moving  away, 
leaving  me,  and  not  saying  one  word.  O  there  is  meaning, 
there  is  a  mystery  here  I  do  not  understand.  I  have  a  story  to 
tell  you.  That  picture  has  a  story.  Lady,  once  upon  a  time, 
on  a  mountain  of  fire  above  the  sad  sweet  sea,  above  the  city 
where  Virgil  sang  and  died,  a  man  strewed  roses  in  the  path 
of  his  queen,  and  then  turned  away,  and  could  not  look  upon 
her  face,  because  he  had  worshipped  her,  and  made  her  even 
as  his  God."  The  artist  stopped,  startled  at  his  own  utterances. 

The  dark  eyes  drooped  down.  There  was'  a  tinge  of  rose 
in  the  beautiful  face,  and  a  hand  reached  out  and  laid  hold  of 
a  blossom,  and  plucked  ib,  and  dropped  it  on  the  carpet,  and 
its  petals  were  red  like  dripping  blood. 

She  did  not  answer.  She  did  not  look  up  or  lift  her  eyes 
at  all.  The  artist  grew  terrified.  He  was  certain  he  had 
done  a  fearful  thing.  He  felt  that  he  had  ruined  all  that  he 
had  hoped  for.  "  O,  if  she  would  only  speak,  or  lift  her  eyes, 
or  stir,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  stood  there  listening  to  his 
heart,  "  but  this  is.  intolerable." 

He  was  standing  by  the  half  open  door.  Still,  she  did  not 
speak,  or  stir,  or  lift  her  eyes,  but  the  fingers  kept  plucking 
the  crimson  flowers  and  dropping  blood  upon  the  carpet,  as  if 
from  some  mortal  wound. 

The  man  glided  through  the  door  like  a  spirit,  passed  from 
the  suffocating  palace  to  the  sultry  street,  holding  a  photo 
graph  tight  in  his  hand,  and  on  down  the  Corso  to  his  hotel, 
where  he  knew  that,  according  to  his  promise,  Carlton  stood 
waiting  him  from  the  balcony  over  the  street. 

Venice  to-morrow ;  then  Como — Paradise,  Paradise,  or 
Purgatory  ! 

"And  shall  I  not  see  the  Countess  before  I  go  ?  No,  thank 
God,  that  is  over,"  said  the  artist,  still  talking  to  himself,  as 
he  approached  his  friend  :  "  There  lay  the  path  of  duty,  but 
here  at  last  lies  the  path  of  love ;  and  this  I  will  follow  till 
lost  in  the  forests  or  till  lauded  in  the  Elysian  fields." 
19 


CHAPTER  LIT. 


SKELETON    IN   A    CLOSET. 


E  will  reform  to-morrow," 
said    Carlton,    laughing, 
and  looking  very  know 
ingly  at  the  artist  in  the  dusk, 
as  he  came  down  and  led  him 
through  the  hall  to   his  room. 
"  Yes,  my  dear  Murietta,  you 
are  a  cunning  dog ;  but  I  forgive 
you,  and  am  certain  that,  like  myself, 
you  will  reform  to-morrow,  if  to-mor 
row  ever  comes." 

"  But  I  do  not  understand  you,"  an 
swered  the  puzzled  artist. 

"  But  you  will  understand,  perhaps, 
when  she  explains.      Oh,  you  still  are 

in  the  dark  ?     Well,  to  be  brief  with  you,  there  is  a  lady,  or 
rather  a  lady's  maid,  waiting  for  you  in  my  parlor." 
"  A  lady's  maid  waiting  for  me  ?  " 

''  Go  along,  go  along.  You  understand.  Keep  your  own 
secrets  if  you  like.  Only  be  sure  you  reform  to-morrow," 
laughed  Carlton,  as  he  led  up  to  his  rooms  and  pushed  open 
the  door. 

There  she  sat  in  the  dark  and  under  the  curtains,  like  a 


A  Skeleton  in  a   Closet.  435 

frightened  bird  that  had  fluttered  in  through  the  window.  It 
was  the  faithful  maid  of  the  Countess  Edna. 

"  Come  !  her  keeper  is  drunk  and  asleep  !  It  is  the  first 
time  she  could  send  to  you,  or  I  could  escape.  Come  at  once  • 
he  may  awake.  There  is  a  secret  passage  in  from  the  porter's 
lodge ;  we  can  get  in  by  that,  for  the  Admiral  and  Count  are 
on  the  great  stairway,  and  watching  all  th'e  other  doors.  Coine, 
there  is  not  a  moment  to  lose." 

The  excited  girl  laid  hold  of  the  artist,  and,  still  trembling 
with  fright  and  anxiety,  attempted  to  pull  him  to  the  door, 
as  if  to  hasten  his  departure. 

At  the  door  he  met  Carlton,  who  had  left  him  for  a  moment, 
returning. 

"  Look  here,  Carlton,"  he  said  hurriedly,  while  the  terrified 
maid  kept  looking  wildly  about,  as  if  afraid  she  was  followed 
and  watched,  "  I  am  going  to  the  Countess  Edna.  Take  this, 
there  is  trouble  in  the  wind."  The  artist  handed  him  his 
pistol. 

"  Well,  I  thought  men  as  a  rule  buckled  on  their  armor 
when  there  is  trouble  in  the  wind ;  but  you,  it  seems,  lay  it 
off!" 

"  The  Countess  has  sent  for  me,  and  there  may  be  trouble. 
I  know  how  grave  and  serious  a  thing  it  is  to  attempt  to  see 
her  ;  but  see  her  I  will,  and  I  wish  to  harm  no  one.  I  will 
be  with  you  yet  to-night,  if  I  live." 

"  Good,  my  boy  ;  go,  and  reform  to-morrow  !  " 

He  waved  his  hand  and  went  into  his  rooms,  as  the  artist 
went  out  at  the  back  gate,  followed  by  the  maid. 

"  Bah  !  that  Marietta  is  a  rake,"  said  Carlton,  as  he  lighted 
a  cigar,  and,  seating  himself  on  the  sofa,  lifted  his  legs  to  the 
table,  and  began  to  blow  a  cloud  to  the  ceiling. 

They  reached  the  coffin-like  lodge  at  the  side  of  the  great 
portal  or  arch  of  the  palace,  and,  handing  the  little  man  a  roll 
of  francs,  the  door  immediately  and  very  slyly  opened;  and 
then  the  little  Roman  soldier  at  his  post  opened  a  blank  door 


436  The  One  Fair    Woman. 

behind  him,  and  making  certain  that  he  was  not  observed,  led 
the  two  through  into  a  dark,  dingy,  passage,  where  he  lighted 
a  coil  wax  taper,  such  as  is  used  in  the  passage  of  the  Cata 
combs,  and  beckoned  them  forward. 

They  ascended  a  narrow  stairway,  damp  and  heavy  with 
the  smell  of  the  grave,  and  then  made  a  long  detour  to  the 
right.  Here  they  stopped  and  listened.  The  little  porter 
laid  his  ear  to  the  wall,  but  could  hear  nothing.  Then  he  laid 
it  down  to  the  floor,  and  arose  satisfied  that  all  was  clear,  and 
led  up  another  stairway  as  dark  and  dismal  as  the  first. 

Here  they  listened  again.  Not  a  sound,  save  the  rats  nib 
bling  at  some  leathern  objects  lying  about  on  the  floor. 

The  porter  opened  this  door  cautiously,  and  the  three  stood 
in  a  clamp,  dark  vault,  where  there  were  piled  bags  of  what 
might  have  been  either  chestnuts  or  walnuts,  or  any  other 
thing  of  the  kind,  to  all  appearances. 

There  were  dozens  of  rats  running  over  and  around  these 
bags,  and  as  they  ran  something  rattled  over  the  floor  and 
rolled  at  the  feet  of  the  artist.  He  stooped  and  picked  it  up. 
It  was  a  cartridge. 

The  porter  listened  again,  and  then  led  on  rapidly,  without 
looking  to  the  right  or  left.  There  was  a  smell  of  death  not 
to  be  mistaken.  The  maid  shrank  close  up  to  the  side  of  the 
porter,  and  the  porter  hastened  to  unfasten  the  door. 

"  Have  you  ever  been  in' this  passage  before  ?"  asked  the 
artist,  taking  the  coil  of  wax  from  his  hand,  and  turning  back 
to  the  bags  of  cartridges. 

"  No,  no,  never  before ;  and,  please  the  blessed  Virgin,  I 
will  never  come  again,  even  though  the  Countess  should  give 
me  her  palace.  It  smells  !  •" 

"  Look  here !  stop  !  lift  that  cloak  !  "  said  the  artist,  hold 
ing  the  light  over  a  dark  object  heaped  lip  in  a  corner. 

The  porter  shrank  back  against  the  maid,  and  the  maid 
against  the  wall. 

The  artist  pushed  the  cloak  aside  with  his  foot.     There  lay 


A   Skeleton  in  a   Closet.  437 

the  half-decayed  skeleton  of  a  man  close  against  the  bags  of 
ammunition. 

He  looked  at  the  two  cowering  figures  before  him.  Then 
he  put  his  finger  to  his  lips.  They  made  signs  that  they 
would  be  silent. 

"  Swear  it.  Lift  up  your  right  hands,  and  swear  it  in  the» 
presence  of  the  dead." 

They  lifted  up  their  hands,  and  he  swore  them  in  the  name 
of  the  Madonna. 

"  Now,  mark  you  this.  Your  own  lives  depend  on  your 
secrecy.  Tell  of  this  dead  man,  and  the  law  will  demand  of 
you  some  account  of  how  he  came  here." 

The  porter  saw  the  position,  and  again  promised  the  pro- 
foundest  secrecy,  as  they  replaced  the  cloak  and  once  more 
passed  on. 

They  entered  an  outer  camera,  where  a  dim  light  was  burn 
ing  on  a  little  table  where  were  flasks  and  bottles  of  wine. 

There  was  a  bed  in  a  corner  of  this  room,  and  on  this  bed 
lay  a  man  muttering  in  a  drunken -sleep. 

Passing  on  cautiously  and  swiftly  as  possible  through 
another  door,  they  entered  a  very  neat  and  comfortable 
saloon,  where  evidently  the  hand  of  woman  was  not  wanting 
to  set  things  in  order. 

Fussing  through  this  saloon,  the  maid  tapped  gently  at  a 
door,  till  a  voice,  soft  and  sweet  and  low,  bade  her  come. 

The  Countess  opened  her  great  brown  eyes,  looked  at  the 
party  a  moment,  and  then  fell  into  the  arms  of  Marietta 
and  burst  into  tears.  She  seemed  as  if  her  heart  would 
break,  yet  all  the  time  tried  to  restrain  herself,  and  tried  to 
speak  and  make  herself  understood. 

"  Here  !  take  this;  take  this  ring;  take  it,  and  at  once  ! 
Put  it  on  your  finger,  turn  it  under,  so — so  that  they  will 
not  sec  it.  Take  it,  for  heaven's  sake !  "  she  cried,  as  he 
hesitated.  "  Take  it !  "  and  she  took  his  hand  and  almost 
forced  it  on  his  finger. 


438  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  It  is  my  dead  brother's  ring.  Listen  !  You  know  he 
had  that  ring  on  his  hand  when  he  disappeared.  He  has 
never  been  heard  of  since.  But  I  went  among  them  last 
night.  I  went  out  among  the  drunken,  brawling  brigands, 
that  fill  my  palace  and  keep  me  a  prisoner  here.  And  what 
do  you  think  ?  I  found  them  lying  drunk  and  asleep,  and 
that  ring — that  curious  and  rich  ring,  that  was  on  my  dead 
brother's  hand  when  last  I  saw  him — was  on  the  finger  of 
the  dark  old  Admiral.  Hush  !  I  took  it  off.  They  missed 
it  this  morning.  And  what  did  they  do  ?  They  took  my 
little  boy  and  threatened  to  destroy  him  too,  body  and  soul, 
if  I  dared  to  say  one  word." 

"  Gods  !  I  should  have  brought  my  pistols  ! "  hissed  the 
artist. 

"Are  you  unarmed  ?  Then  heaven  help  you  !  But  my 
husband,  the  Count,  is  not  so  bad.  No,  no  ;  he  is  not 
bad.  It  is  the  terrible  society  to  which  he  belongs ;  and  he 
has  not  the  strength  or  will  to  escape." 

"  And  where  are  these  wretches  now  !  " 

"  Here  in  my  palace.  I  dare  not  lift  a  finger,  or  say  one 
word,  or  they  will  destroy  my  little  boy,  as  they  did  my 
brother.  And  they  tell  me  that  if  I  do  not  give  up  this  ring, 
I  shall  never  be  allowed  to  get  out  again,  or  to  see  a  friend. 
You  are  the  first  Christian  I  have  seen !  " 

The  lady's  face  was  flushed  and  on  fire  with  excitement 
and  rage. 

"And  your  husband,  the  Count,  will  he  endure  all 
this?" 

"  Oh,  I  have  exhausted  all  hope — every  resource  in  that 
direction.  He  tells  me  these  are  his  friends ;  he  is  my 
husband,  and  they  must  be  made  welcome ;  and  when  I 
pleaded  for  my  liberty  this  morning,  and  protested  against 
this  imprisonment,  he  simply  said  the  ring  is  not  mine,  that 
I  have  no  right  to  it,  and  that  if  I  want  to  go  out,  I  have 
only  to  give  it  up  and  go.  I  will  not  give  it  up  to  him.  It 


A   Skeleton  in  a   Closet.  439 

is  the  death-warrant  of  that  monster.  We  must  keep  it. 
Keep  it,  Murietta,  with  your  life  !  " 

"  I  will  keep  it.      By  heaven,  I  will  keep  it  ! " 

"  I  know  you  will  keep  it,  and  keep  my  secret  till  it  is 
time  to  reveal  it.  Listen  to  me," — she  sank  down  on  the  sofa, 
in  a  heap  of  rose  and  pink  robes — "  I  said  I  had  something 
to  tell  you.  You  grew  tired  of  hearing  me  say  it.  Well, 
this  is  it.  My  husband,  the  Count,  belongs  to  a  strange 
society.  I  do  not  know  what  it  is.  I  know  it  is  something 
terrible,  and  that  its  members  meet  here,  and  make  my  palace 
the  head-quarters  of  their  crimes.  He  says  he  was  sworn 
into  their  order  when  he  was  too  young  to  xinderstand,  and 
that  he  cannot  now  leave  it  and  live.  Listen  !  This,  all 
this,  has  been  going  on  for  years.  We  have  been  here  five 
years.  At  first  I  endured  it  well.  Then  they  began  to  take 
all  the  money  I  had,  to  plunge  me  in  debt,  to  try  to  take 
my  little  boy  into  strange  churches,  and  to  teach  him  terri 
ble  things;  and  then,  at  last,  I  managed  to  get  the  truth  to 
my  brother.  He  came  at  once.  They  treated  him  with  all  the 
civility  possible  ;  but  when  he  determined  to  take  me  out  of 
Italy,  to  my  father,  my  husband  protested ;  and  they — the 
brigands — told  him,  that  I  should  never  leave  Italy,  for 
through  me  came  the  money  that  kept  the  order  together.  I 
could  not,  I  would  not  then,  reveal  to  the  world  the  truth  of 
things.  I  was  proud  of  being  a  Countess,  and  all  the  time 
hoped  for  the  best,  and  believed  I  would  yet  get  the  Count 
out  of  the  country,  and  away  from  these  evil  men,  and ' 

There  was  a  noise  in  the  room  through  which  the  little 
party  had  just  entered,  and  the  porter  laid  hold  of  the  bolt 
and  key. 

"  I  must  be  brief,"  whispered  the  Countess,  lifting  her 
hand  towards  the  door.  "  My  brother  deterauned  to  take 
me  away,  and  at  once.  We  were  to  start  the  next  day.  He 
went  out  to  ride  on  the  Campagna.  He  had  that  ring  on 
his  finger.  A  man  at  the  Porto  Popolo  told  me  he  saw  him 


44°  The  One  Fair   Woman. 

return  and  enter  Rome  ;  but  I —  I  never  saw  him  any  more. 
I  enquired  everywhere.  They  said  I  was  crazy,  mad.  And 
now,  here,  this  is  what  you  must  do.  I  must  have  help. 
Take  this  ring — get  it  to  my  father  in  the  States,  and •" 

"  But  your  father  is  in  Home ;  he  is  in  Rome,  and  at  the 
Russe  Hotel." 

"  In  Rome  ?  Do  you  say  in  Rome  ?  Oh,  do  you  say  in 
Rome?  "  She  fell  upon  her  knees,  and  took  the  man's  hand 
in  hers,  and  held  it  to  her  lips,  and  covered  it  with  tears. 

"  Then  go  to  him  at  once.  Take  that  ring.  No.  Yes  ; 
take  the  ring ;  but  do  not  show  it  to  him.  He  is  old,  and 
very  frail.  He  would  know  the  ring,  for  it  was  our  mother's, 
and  it  might  affect  him  too  much.  But  take  it  and  go. 
Bring  him  here  at  once.  Go  now,  for  God's  sake  !  I  hear 
voices !  Here,  this  way !  They  are  coming  through  the 
secret  passage  !  Go — go  by  the  grand  saloon  and  down  the 
broad  steps.  Bring  my  father.  Tell  the  Consul.  Christ  !  is 
there  not,  in  all  Catholic  Rome,  one  man  to  protect  a 
woman  ?  " 

The  artist  hurried  through  the  grand  saloon — through  a 
door — through  a  hall — through  an  outer  door,  and  was  then 
in  an  ante-camera,  and  moving  across  to  the  great  door  that 
opened  upon  the  broad  stairway,  where  he  would  be  safe  and 
free  from  the  hands  or  daggers  of  those  who  were  watching 
his  movements. 

"  Stop  there  !  I  am  a  man  who  carries  his  heart  in  his 
hand.  A  rough  but  honest  sailor  ;  and  now  I  want  to  know 
what  in  hell  you  are  doing  here  ?  " 

He  struck  his  fist  on  a  great  side-board  where  lay  a  lot  of 
old  arms,  and  the  arms  bounded  and  rattled  as  if  they  were 
marshaling  for  war. 

This  seemed  to  be  a  sort  of  signal  of  distress,  for  men, 
headed  by  the  Count ;  and,  all  more  or  less  intoxicated,  came 
staggering  in  through  a  door  that  opened  deeper  into  the 
palace  to  the  left. 


A   Skeleton  in  a  Closet.  441 

"  Let  me  pass,"  cried  the  artist.     "  Let  me  pass,  I  say." 

The  Count  rushed  up,  and  attempted  to  seize  him  by  the 
throat. 

"  What  are  you  ?  " 

The  words  were  driven  back  down  his  throat  by  a  blow 
from  Marietta  in  his  mouth,  and  he  fell  back,  and  then 
gathered  strength,  and  came  up  to  his  work  like  a  man  really 
fighting  for  the  right ;  but  only  to  be  sent  back  again  with 
severer  punishment. 

"  Open  that  door  !  "  cried  the  artist,  advancing  towards 
the  Admiral,  who  had  placed  his  back  against  it. 

The  Count  was  down ;  the  other  men  had  retreated,  and 
the  old  Admiral  had  no  disposition  to  enter  the  lists  with 
this  infuriated  man,  whose  hand  was  bleeding  and  dripping 
with  blood  from  his  own  wounds  and  from  the  face  of  the 
Count.  The  Admiral  preferred  to  fight  with  women,  and 
therefore  proceeded  to  open  the  door. 

"  There  now,  begone  !  "  he  cried,  as  he  swung  it  wide 
open,  "  and  beware  how  you  again  enter  the  palace  of  a 
gentleman  uninvited. 

"  Look  here,  my  gray-headed  murderer  !  Mark  you  here  !  " 
answered  Murietta,  as  he  still  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
and  lifted  his  fist  towards  the  Admiral.  "  One  word  before  I  go. 
You  profess  to  be  a  blunt  and  an  honest  man.  I  will  also  be 
plain  with  you.  I  go ;  but  I  return.  This  door  is  to  be 
opened  for  me.  I  bring  the  father  of  the  Countess  to  her. 
You  can  be  discreet.  I  bring  the  old  man  to  his  daughter, 
who  you  have  been  telling  all  the  time  is  insane.  ISTow, 
will  this  door  be  opened  to  me  or  not  ?  " 

"  Opened  to  you  ?     Ha,  ha !  " 

"  Yes  ;  opened  to  rue.  Since  you  seem  to  be  the  captain  of 
the  castle,  "  said  Murietta,  now  looking  at  the  Count,  Avho 
stood  leaning  on  the  table  and  wiping  the  blood  from  his 
face  as  he  listened  to  the  parley,  "  I  will  make  my  terms  of 
capitulation  with  you.  Shall  I  find  this  door  open,  or  shall 
19* 


442  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

I "  he  advanced  towards  the  retiring  Admiral,  and  shook 

his  fist  in  his  face,  "  or  shall  I  enter  by  the  secret  passage, 
and  take  the  police  with  me  once  show  them  the  dead  man, 
the  brother  of  the  Countess,  whose  body  lies  by  the  magazine 
with  which  you  expect  to  blow  the  palace  to  the  moon.  An 
swer  me,  yes  or  no  !  " 

"Yes,  yes, "  gasped  the  admiral,  as  he  sank  against  the 
wall.  "Let  us  be  friends.  What  is  the  use  of  strife  ?  " 

The  artist  was  gone. 

He  found  the  father  at  the  Hotel  Russe,  a  little  bent  old 
man,  with  a  beard  white  as  snow. 

"  Your  daughter,  the  Countess  Edna,  wants  to  see  you. 
You  are  to  come  to  her  at  once.  I  have  just  left  her  side,  and 
she  sends  me  to  tell  you  to  come  to  her  as  soon  as  possible." 

"  But  my  daughter  is — my  daughter  has — my  daughter 
cannot  see  me.  I  have  been  waiting  and  waiting.  I  have  just 
come  from  the  palace.  The  good  old  Admiral,  who  is  on  watch, 
tells  me  that  she  is  even  worse.  " 

"  But  you  are  to  come,  "  cried  the  eager  and  impulsive 
artist,  "  and  to  come  at  once.  Only  come  and  see ;  that 
will  not  take  you  long.  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes  ;  that  is  quite  true.  I  will  go.  I  will  go 
•with  you,  Mr. — Mr. — " 

"  Murietta,  "  said  the  artist. 

"  Murietta  !  Heaven  help  me  !  Is  it  you  who  have  the  au 
dacity  to  come  to  me — you,  who  have  blighted  my  daughter's 
name,  and  driven  her  to  madness  ?  No,  no  !  Get  out  of  my 
sight !  Do  not  speak  to  me  !  " 

"But  will  you  not  go  with  me?  Will  you  not  go  and 
see  ?  Men  have  been  telling  lies.  Come,  1  will  prove  to 
you  that  they  have  lied.  " 

"  No,  no.  Go.  Will  you  riot  get  out  of  my  sight  ?  Oh 
that  my  son  were  here,  that  he  might  chastise  you  for  your 
crime  and  your  audacity  !  " 

"  Your  son  !  "     The  artist  thought  of  the  dead  man's  ring. 


A  Skeleton  in  a   Closet.  443 

"  Your  daughter  has  just  been  speaking  of  jour  son.  She 
has  just  received  a  ring — a  ring  he  wore  when  last  she  saw 
him  ;  and,  fearing  you  might  be  deterred  from  coining  with  me, 
a  stranger —  she  bade  me  show  it  you,  if  that  was  necessary, 
to  convince  you  of  the  truth  of  my  message.  See  !  " 

He  held  the  glittering  jewel  up  on  his  forefinger  before  the 
old  man's  eyes  under  the  lamp  in  the  hall. 

"It is — it  is  true!  It  is  his!  I  had  a  dream.  You  will 
forgive  me,"  he  said,  offering  his  hand.  "  I  had  a  dream,  and 
now  my  dream  is  coming  true.  Lead  on — lead  on — bring  me 
to  my  child  !  " 

"  Double  fare,  and  a  fast  drive,  "  said  the  artist  to  the 
driver,  as  they  entered  a  carriage  at  the  door. 

True  to  the  old  Admiral's  promise,  he  stood  at  the  door, 
and  it  opened  without  a  word. 

"  She  has  suddenly  recovered  her  mind,"  he  whispered  to 
the  old  man,  her  father ;  "  but  still  has  strange  illusions  that 
you  must  not  contradict  or  interfere  with  at  all.  That  will 
make  her  worse. " 

They  stood  before  the  parlor  door,  which  opened  with 
some  delay. 

The  Countess  lay  exhausted  upon  her  sofa.  The  excitement 
of  the  half  hour  with  the  artist  had  broken  her  down,  for  she 
was  a  weak  and  over-nervous  woman,  and  could  not  endure 
such  tension  of  the  mind  long  at  a  time. 

To  the  dismay  and  disgust  of  Murietta,  in  the  door  oppo 
site  stood  the  sleek,  cunning  Giuseppe,  and  by  the  side  of  the 
Countess  stood  the  narrow-browed  doctor  we  have  seen  at  the 
little  cell  by  the  Tarpeian  Rock.  Over  in  a  corner  sat  the 
Count,  with  his  head  bandaged,  and  his  eye  closed,  from  the 
frightful  blows  in  his  face. 

The  lady  saw  her  father ;  and,  rising  slowly,  and  with  an  air 
of  authority,  she  waved  the  two  villains  out,  or  attempted  to 
wave  them  out  of  the  room.  They  retreated  but  a  few  steps, 
and  still  lingered. 


444  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  Are  you  the  mistress  here,  or  am  I  ? "  Then  turning 
quietly  to  her  father,  she  said,  "  You  see,  father,  these  men 
constitute  themselves  my  keepers.  I  am  a  prisoner,  and  my 
husband  is  powerless  to  help  me  !  "  Then  she  put  her  arms 
about  his  neck  and  kissed  him  rapturously,  and  cried  as  if 
her  baby  heart  would  break,  and  she  should  never  cease  to 
weep. 

At  last  she  lifted  her  head,  and  the  two  keepers  were  gone. 
The  Count  still  sat  there  with  an  eye  closed,  and  bound  and 
silent. 

"  And  now  you  will  never,  never  leave  me  !  "  she  said,  as 
she  still  held  on  to  her  father  as  if  she  had  been  a  child. 
"  And  now  we  can  go  all  together,  and  get  away  from  this 
dreadful  nightmare  and  the  terrible  nieii  that  have  fastened 
upon  the  Count !  " 

"  No,  no,  I  will  never  leave  my  child,"  said  the  feeble  old 
man  as  he  sank  into  a  seat,  "  never  part  with  my  wayward 
little  daughter,  who  would  wed  a  stranger  and  in  a  strange 
land,  any  more.  No,  no,  we  can  all  go  home  together,  as  you 
say,  and  be  glad  and  content  again.  Come  Count,  my  son  ! 
see,  we  are  all  right  now.  We  can  go  to-morrow,  for  it  is 
killing  me  in  Rome." 

"  To-morrow,  O  let  it  be  to-morrow  !  "  cried  the  Countess, 
clasping  her  hands.  "  Do,  do  let  it  be  to-morrow !  Leave 
the  palace,  leave  it  all.  It  is  haunted.  There  is  a  skeleton 
in  the  house." 

The  Count  started  up  and  staggered  towards  the  door,  as  he 
tore  the  bandages  from  his  face. 

"  Poor,  poor  Count,  and  what  is  the  matter  now  with  his 
face  ?  "  said  the  old  man  to  the  Countess. 

She  looked  up  towards  the  door,  saw  the  Count  passing  out, 
and  Murietta  standing  before  him. 

"  Stand  aside,  Mr.  Murietta  !  stand  back,  and  let  the 
Count,  my  husband,  pass !  Why  did  you  lift  your  hand 
against  my  husband  ?  Was  there  no  one  else  for  you  to  lay 


A  Skeleton  in  a  Closet.  445 

your  heavy  blows  upon?     Is  it  thus  that  you  would  assist  a 
lady  in  distress  ?     Sir,  you  can  go." 

"  Lady,"  said  the  man  sadly,  as  he  drew  a  ring  from  his 
finger,  "  I  leave  you  with  your  father  and  your  husband.  I 
am  very  sorry  I  raised  my  hand  against  the  Count.  I  see  I 
am  again  misunderstood.  But  now  you  are  safe,  and  I  go. 
Good-bye,  and  God  bless  you  !  "  He  handed  the  ring  to  the 
old  man  as  he  said  this,  and  hastened  away.  She  did  not 
call  him  back  or  say  one  word. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  as  he  reached  the  street,  "  Carlton  was 
right.  I  know  nothing  whatever  about  women,  and  very 
little  indeed  about  men." 

There  was  a  dog  crossing  before  him  as  he  turned  a  corner, 
and  he  drew  back  his  foot  and  kicked  it  with  all  his  might. 

"  No  matter,"  he  said,  as  he  climbed  the  steps  of  the  Hotel 
Russe  and  found  his  friend  Carlton.  "  No  matter ;  I  have 
done  my  duty  to  the  living,  and  nothing  can  help  the  dead. 
J  do  not  see  what  else  remains  or  what  I  have  to  complain 
of.  The  old  man  will  now  care  for  his  daughter  and " 

The  artist  thought  a  long  time  over  what  he  had  seen  in 
the  secret  passage,  and  then  said  to  himself,  "  Some  day  there 
will  be  an  explosion  in  that  palace,  and  the  Papists  will  say 
it's  the  king's  party  trying  to  blow  up  good  Catholics;  and 
the  Government  will  say  is  it  the  Pope  trying  to  re-establish 
his  tottered  throne ;  while,  in  truth,  it  will  be  but  a  nest  of 
brigands  trying  to  conceal  their  crimes!  " 

The  friends  parted  for  the  night  very  soon,  for  they  had  to 
be  up  with  the  sun  on  their  way  to  Venice. 

"  We  will  reform  to-morrow,"  said  Carlton,  laughing  and 
looking  back  over  his  shoulder  as  he  retired  to  his  bed-room, 
for  he  did  not  yet  know  anything  that  had  transpired  chat 
evening  at  the  palace. 

How  wide-awake  the  day  was  that  morning,  as  the  two 
friends  drove  to  the  station  for  the  four  o'clock  train.  Italy 
was  bathing  her  morning  face  in  a  golden  shower  of  sunlight. 


446  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

The  artist  thought  only  of  Annette,  as  they  whirled  through 
the  ruins,  and  out  and  under  the  walls  away  towards  the  Alps, 
pointing  toward  Como  by  way  of  Venice. 

"  Rome  is  the  earth,  the  centre  of  the  earth ;  but  Como 
shall  be  my  heaven,"  and  the  artist  raised  his  hand  in  an 
eternal  farewell  to  the  Eternal  City,  as  Carlton  drew  forth  a 
red-bound  book,  and  began  to  read  aloud  of  gondolas  and 
palaces,  and  of  "  The  Bridge  of  Sighs." 


CHAPTER  LIII. 


CROSSING    THE    RUBICON. 

UR  two  friends  left  the  cars 
when    they     first     touched 
the  Adriatic.     Before  them 
and  far  up  the  coast  flowed 
the  black  and   silent   little 
Rubicon  through  the  tall  sea 
grass,  and  yonder  rose   the 
famous  three  towers  of  San 
Marino.     They  were  in  old, 
old  and  classic  Italy. 
Italy  looks  so  very  tired.      Let 
her  lie  down  and  rest.     She  is  old 
and  weary,  and  worn,    and  storm- 
stained,    and   battered    and    battle- 
torn,  till    it  seems  like  irreverence 
to  ask   her  now  to  rise  up  and  take 

a  place  among  the  powers  of  the  earth.  Let  her  rest,  and 
we  will  respect,  aye,  reverence  her  still.  We  will  come  up 
from  the  under  world,  and  sit  at  her  feet  and  listen,  and 
learn  from  her  songs  of  a  thousand  years. 

New  Italy  is  a  misnomer.  It  is  out  of  place.  It  fires 
one's  soul  to  think  of  steam-ploughs  on  the  Campagna,  and 
patent  gas  burners  among  the  blinking  owls  of  the  Coliseum. 


448  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

"We  have  enough  of  the  clash  and  thunder  of  commerce  at 
home.  One  comes  to  Italy  to  rest.  There  is  something 
awful  in  the  rush  of  a  railroad  over  your  head  as  you  prowl 
among  the  dead  of  the  Catacombs.  The  tomb  of  Augustus  is 
a  theatre  with  all  the  modern  improvements.  The  Tarpeian 
rock  is  a  telegraph  office.  One  turns  away  disgusted,  and 
devoutly  wishes  that  that  little  difference  between  the  Fope 
and  his  people  had  never  happened. 

And  yet  the  world  is  to  blame.  There  was  no  strife  to 
speak  of,  outside  of  the  moral  Avar.  The  world  said,  "  Italy 
be  free,"  as  it  had  said  to  Greece ;  and  it  was  so.  A  few 
Italians  fought  a  few  Italians ;  and,  leaving  out  the  Emperor 
of  the  French  and  Victor  Emanuel,  there  was  not  enough 
real  mettle  and  manhood  shown  to  lift  the  whole  affair  above 
the  province  of  a  farce. 

It  is  the  safest  prophecy  in  the  world  to  say,  that  when 
the  present  grand  old  figure-head,  Victor  Emanuel,  makes 
his  tomb  in  this  house  of  tombs,  and  takes  permanent  posses 
sion  of  it,  then  the  Pope  will  again  swing  his  drowsy  censers 
and  Italy  will  again  lie  down  and  sleep,  and  sleep,  and  sleep 
for  a  full  thousand  years.  The  thought  is  not  unpleasant. 
One  feels  like  resenting  this  new  life  in  this  old  land.  It  is 
a  corpse  set  grinning  by  a  galvanic  battery,  and  it  is  hideous 
as  an  old  woman  in  the  dress  of  her  grandchild. 

Our  friends  were  at  Ancona.  Ancona  seems  to  have  been 
planted  here  on  the  Adriatic  by  the  Greeks  as  a  sort  of  battle 
field  for  future  generations.  This  battered  little  fishing  town, 
in  the  last  three  thousand  years,  has  scored  at  least  a  hun 
dred  battles. 

"  We  will  rest  here,"  cried  Carlton,  lifting  his  glass  as 
they  sat  to  dinner,  "for  here  is  peace  and  plenty;  the  olive 
and  the  vine.  It  is  said  that  men  must  leave  Ancona  when 
they  wish  to  die." 

"  Then  we  surely  will  remain  and  rest,"  answered  Mu- 
rietta. 


Crossing  the  Rubicon.  449 

"  N"o,"  said  Carlton,  "  fate  demands  that  we  move  on  to 
morrow.  'Twas  ever  thus." 

The  glasses  were  again  emptied.  Carlton  pushed  out  his 
long  legs  under  the  marble  table,  drew  in  his  breath,  as  if 
feeding  on  the  sweet  air  of  the  Adriatic,  and  the  two  artists 
sat  contemplating  each  other,  and  well  content  with  the  world 
and  themselves. 

Carlton  filled  and  emptied  his  glass  again.  Marietta 
looked  at  the  man,  with  the  least  bit  of  a  wrinkle  on  his 
brow. 

"  Ah  !  "  but  I  will  reform  to-morrow,"  laughed  Carlton  ; 
and  again  the  happy  fellow  threw  back  his  head,  and  the 
glass  was  empty. 

There  was  a  bustle  at  the  door  of  the  dining  saloon,  a  rush 
of  feet  and  a  rustle  of  silk,  and  a  party  of  three  poured  in 
upon  our  friends  as  they  sat  by  their  table. 

"  Bet  your  life,  I'm  hungry  !  and  poor  dear  ma — the  bald- 
headed  Elijah  !  "  cried  the  delighted  California!!  girl,  as  she  dis 
covered  our  friends,  and  sprang  forward,  and  caught  them  both 
at  the  same  time  as  they  sat  there,  in  one  sweeping  embrace. 

"  Oh  now  !  ain't  this  jolly  !  Just  the  fellows  I  wanted  to 
see.  Now  you  sit  down  there,  pa — and  yo\i,  ma,  there — and 
I'll  sit  by  Mr.  Murietta  and  talk  to  him  about  the  pink  Prin 
cess  and  Rome,  and — " 

The  girl's  voice  faltered,  and  Murietta  hastened  to  change 
the  drift  of  her  thought. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  had  to  leave  Florence  !  Florence  is  so  hot. 
Oh,  Florence  is  the  worst  !  It  is  the  hottest  hole.  Florence 
pleasant  ?  Oh  !  why,  Florence  is  hot  enough  to  melt  a  brass 
monkey  !" 

And  thus  the  light-hearted  girl  rattled  on  all  the  evening, 
and  her  mother  and  the  General  sat  by  and  listened  and 
admired,  while  Murietta  thought  all  the  time  of  a  dark  and 
lovely  lady,  and  Carlton  tilted  his  glass  continually,  and  said 
all  the  time  that  he  should  reform  to  morrow. 


450  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

Then  it  was  agreed  that  they  should  all  visit  San  Marino 
together  on  their  way  to  Venice ;  and  the  friends  separated 
for  the  night. 

There  was  something  as  fresh  as  a  sea-breeze  in  the  idea  of 
a  visit  to  San  Marino.  Who  has  not  seen  its  three  towers  in 
the  picture-books  ?  And  who  has  not  read  how  the  Little 
Corporal  of  Corsica  respected  San  Marino,  and  San  Marino 
only,  of  all  the  powers  of  Europe  ? 

They  left  the  rumbling  cars  entirely  at  Ancona,  the  oldest 
Greek  colony  on  the  Italian  Adriatic,  and  there  took  a  car 
riage,  and  drove  leisurely  up  the  sea  till  almost  under  the 
high  towers  of  the  little  Republic.  On  the  way,  they  drove 
through  a  little  town  known  as  the  birth-place  of  Rossini,  a 
hot,  miserable  little  place  ;  and  the  fat  little  composer,  sitting 
in  a  coat  of  verdigris,  on  a  very  uneasy  seat,  right  by  the  side 
of  the  railroad,  is  its  only  attraction.  His  townsmen  told  the 
travellers  that  this  Rossini  was  a  very  mean  man  ;  and  that, 
though  very  wealthy,  he  would  eat  only  maccaroni,  and  that 
even  then  he  would  not  trust  any  one  to  purchase  it  for  him, 
for  fear  of  being  cheated. 

"  Oh  me  !  I  wish  I  had  not  heard  that !"  sighed  Mollie, 
"  for  now  I  shall  never  hear  one  of  his  wonderful  pieces 
without  thinking  of  a  dirty  little  town  by  the  Adriatic,  and 
a  fat  loafing  little  Italian  winking  in  the  sun  as  he  tells  of 
the  prophet  who  had  no  honor  in  his  own  town ;  and  then 
I  shall  get  hungry  and  think  all  the  time  of  Italian  macca 
roni  !" 

The  towers  of  the  Republic  lie  almost  twenty  miles  back 
from  the  sea ;  yet  they  are  so  high  and  clearly  cut  in  the 
pure  air  that  they  seem  but  a  little  distance  away. 

Not  far  from  Rimini,  a  town  full  of  interest  on  account  of 
its  connection  with  the  name  of  Dante,  they  crossed  the 
Rubicon.  A  mean  little  river  indeed  is  the  Rubicon,  but 
one  must  feel  a  strange  deep  interest  in  crossing  it;  and 
they  halted  on  the  little  bridge,  and  looked  up  and  down 


Crossing  the  Rubicon.  451 

its  wandering  waters  in  the  full  bright  moon,  for  it  was  late 
at  night  before  they  reached  their  inn.  There  were  a  thou 
sand  bright  fire-flies  in  the  dark  pines  that  hung  over  its 
waters  and  on  the  thick  verdure  that  grew  along  its  banks, — • 
fireflies, — and  that  was  all. 


CHAPTEK  LIV. 


THE    THREE    TOWERS. 


ERE  lay  Rimini — red  brick  Rimini — 
in  the  edge  of  the  sea ;  and  here  our 
party  rested  for  the  night. 

The  next  morning  they  drove  to 
the  place  where  St.  Anthony  went 
down  and  preached  to  the  fishes  be 
cause  the  men  refused  to  listen  to  him. 
And  then,  after  tliat,  they  saw  the  old 
castle  where  Dante  laid  his  pretty 
story,  his  prettiest  story,  wherein  the 
two  lovers,  as  a  punishment  for  their 
sins,  are  sent  flying  and  flying  forever 
and  forever  through  space. 

"You  ( ti  ht  to  visit  San  Marino,"  said  the 
driver.  "  It  is  the  oldest  and  strongest  place 
in  the  world.  Even  Napoleon  the  Great  could 
not  take  it." 

"  Arid  how  old  is  San  Marino  ?"  asked  the  democratic 
General.  "  Nearly  eight  thousand  years  old.  I  was  born 
there.  I  belong  to  San  Marino  and  ought  to  know.  If  the 
Signori  please,  I  would  like  to  show  them  San  Marino." 

"This  reformed  or  unreformed  brigand  is  just  a  little 
shaky  in  his  history,  isn't  he  ?"  said  Mollie. 

They  did  not.  employ  him ;  but  before  noon  they  were 
whirling  along  at  a  good  pace  on  the  only  road  that  leads 
to  the  only  town  of  the  oldest  republic  in  the  world. 


The   Three   Towers.  453 

Ten  miles  back  from  the  sea  they  passed  a  great  number  of 
Italian  soldiers;  and,  as  they  neared  the  line,  they  swarmed 
as  thickly  as  tourists  in  Switzerland. 

Asking  the  cause  of  this,  they  found  that  King  Victor 
Emanuel  was  just  on  the  point  of  declaring  war  against  San 
Marino,  for  refusing  to  surrender  certain  runaway  soldiers 
who  had  taken  refuge  in  the  rocks  and  caverns  of  the  He- 
public. 

It  was  here  that  Garibaldi  came  with  his  dying  wife  and 
their  children,  after  his  gallant  exploits  in  Rome.  A  broken 
and  vanquished  man,  he  came  bleeding,  weary,  and  alone,  to 
rest  on  the  high  rocks  of  San  Marino. 

You  do  not  think  so  kindly  of  the  little  Republic  when  you 
remember  how  he  was  told  to  "move  on." 

You  look  away  along  the  sea  as  you  stand  in  San  Marino, 
and  there  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  little  town  to  which  the 
brave  man  retreated,  carrying  his  dying  wife  in  his  arms. 
Her  grave  is  there  ;  for  outside  the  town  he  laid  her  down  at 
the  door  of  a  hut  and  asked  for  water  ;  but,  before  it  could  be 
brought,  the  woman  was  dead. 

She  lies  buried  there  nowiii  the  town  that  boasts  the  tomb 
and  bones  of  Dante. 

A  little  stream  marks  the  boundary  between  Italy  and  the 
little  rocky,  desolate,  ten-mile  Republic.  Soldiers  of  Italy 
and  San  Marino  sat  on  the  bridge — each  on  their  own  par 
ticular  ground,  however — quietly  smoking  and  chatting  as 
the  party  passed.  A  polite  people  are  these  Italian  soldiers, 
and  they  all  arose  as  the  party  rode  over,  and  gracefully 
tipped  their  hats. 

A  few  miles  further,  and  the  very  excellent  road  became 
so  very  steep  that  it  was  impossible  to  make  head  with  their 
horses,  and  oxen  were  substituted — great  mild-eyed,  patient 
white  oxen,  the  very  same  that  Virgil  mentions : 

"  And  the  white  bulls  bathe  in  Clyteranestra's  stream." 


454  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

A  yoke  of  leather  was  fastened  about  the  horns,  and  a  ring 
in  the  nose  of  the  nearest  ox,  where  a  tall,  splendid-looking 
Republican  led  and  drove.  Their  new  driver  was  brimful 
of  spirits,  and  talked  all  the  time  as  he  walked  along  by  the 
carriage,  and  told  them  many  new  things  about  San  Marino. 
He  was  just  coming  of  age,  he  said  ;  and  then  the  General 
asked  him  if  he  intended  to  vote  the  "  straight  out-and-out 
Republican  ticket ; "  but  he  did  not  seem  to  understand. 

At  last  the  white  oxen  stopped  at  the  base  of  an  immense 
mountain  of  stone,  on  which  stood  the  immortal  three  towers. 
The  two  ladies  fairly  groaned  with  vexation  at  the  prospect. 
They  all  protested. 

"  This  is  the  end  of  the  road,"  replied  the  man  quietly, 
"  and  I  can  take  you  no  further." 

And  he  tranquilly  unloosed  the  oxen  and  led  them  to  a 
stall. 

"  Come  !  "  cried  Mollie,  "  we  will  pick  up  and  appropriate 

some  of  these   little  Republican  boys  that  lie  around  loose, 

and  load  them  with  our  shawls  and  overcoats  and  umbrellas." 

A  long  easy  grade  by   the  best  of  footways  led  them  in 

half  an  hour  right  into  the  heart  of  the  little  town. 

"  Why  in  the  name  of  common  sense  this  little  city  is 
perched  up  on  the  very  top  of  the  highest  rock  in  all  this 
barren,  broken  and  inhospitable  region  I  cannot  understand," 
said  the  General. 

"  Every  bit  of  food  must  be  carried  \ip  this  steep  and  ugly 
mountain,"  added  Mollie. 

"  Yet  here  these  hardy  people  are  !  here  they  have  been 
for  fifteen  centuries  !  and  here,  from  the  fine  health  and 
spirits  they  seem  to  possess,  they  will  probably  remain  for 
many  centuries  to  come  !  "  said  Murietta,  looking  over  the 
land  and  sea  spread  away  below  them.  The  town  was  small, 
but  neat  and  well  built.  They  noticed  that  not  a  beggar  was 
to  be  seen. 

Mrs.  Wopsus  asked  for  a  doctor;  but  they  said  their  only 


The   Three   Towers,  455 

doctor  was  an  old  woman  who  sold  herbs  and  drugs.  And 
they  said  they  had  not  a  lawyer  in  all  their  Eepublic. 

The  innkeeper,  a  fat,  good-natured  and  intelligent  man, 
met  them  half  way  up  the  hill.  Mollie  was  perfectly  happy 
when  orders  had  been  given  for  dinner ;  and  then  the  inn 
keeper  proposed  to  show  them  the  town. 

They  first  visited  the  little  cathedral.  There  in  the  front 
of  the  altar  stood  St.  Marino,  the  founder  of  the  Republic, 
and  round  about  the  altar  were  many  objects  of  interest,  and 
presents  from  Napoleon  the  Great  to  the  little  church. 

After  that,  the  good  old  landlord,  who  had  twice  been 
President  of  the  Republic,  and  was  then  Chief  Justice,  led 
them  into  a  little  hall. 

"  In  this  hall,  twice  a  year,  can  any  citizen  of  the  Repub 
lic  come  and  make  his  complaints  to  the  Justice,  who  sits 
and  hears  all  that  is  said,  without  the  intervention  of  coun 
sel  or  any  one,"  said  the  chief  magistrate  of  the  oldest  Re 
public  in  the  world  to  the  citizens  of  the  newest. 

"  The  president  receives  no  salary  whatever,"  he  continued, 
"  and  cannot  be  elected  a  second  time  till  after  the  lapse  of 
three  years." 

On  the  table  lay  a  large  book,  the  unalterable  laws  of  San 
Marino.  On  the  walls  hung  the  pictures  of  the  two  Napoleons. 

They  now  visited  the  great  bell  that  sounds  when  all  the 
people  are  required  to  come  together,  for  it  can  be  heard 
from  one  side  of  the  Republic  to  the  other. 

"  It  is  a  very  old  affair,"  remarked  Mollie,  tapping  it  with 
her  plump  little  knuckles,  "  and  heavy  enough  to  make  a 
small  cannon." 

This  bell  hangs  in  one  of  the  three  towers,  and  under 
neath  this  tower  is  the  prison. 

They  found  the  jailor  mending  shoes  at  the  door.  He 
seemed  to  be  positively  proud  that  he  had  a  prisoner  to  show 
them,  and  danced  about  with  delight.  He  said  it  was  the 
first  one  he  had  had  for  a  year. 


456  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  And  what  will  you  do  with  him  ?  Hang  him  ?  "  asked 
Mollie. 

The  man  threw  up  his  hands  in  horror. 

"  Hang  him  !  There  has  never  been  a  man  hung  in  all 
San  Marino  !  " 

"  Then  what  do  you  do  with  bad  men  ?  "  put  in  the  General. 

"  Well,  we  have  no  bad  men." 

"  But  if  one  man  should  kill  another  in  cold  blood  ?" 

"  Why,  then  we  would  put  him  in  prison  three  months,  or 
perhaps  half  a  year,  and  then  banish  him  forever." 

"  And  is  that  all  ?  " 

The  jailor  sat  down  in  silence  and  took  up  his  tools.  At 
last  he  jerked  his  head  over  his  shoulder  and  said,  sharply, 
"  Is  it  not  enough,  I  should  like  to  know,  to  be  banished 
from  San  Marino  ?  " 

"  What  a  fat,  sleek-looking  prisoner  !  I  think  he  must 
be  the  pet  of  the  place  !  "  said  Mollie,  looking  in  through  the 
bars  and  bowing  in  the  most  friendly  fashion. 

While  they  were  there,  some  women  came  in,  passed  the 
cobbler  or  jailor,  who  did  riot  look  up  from  his  work,  and 
handed  the  prisoner  a  whole  basket  of  sweetmeats.  This 
kindness  seemed  to  be  contagious  ;  for,  after  that,  Mollie,  who 
had  left  the  bars  of  the  prison,  went  up  to  the  pigeon-hole 
in  the  door  and  turtle-do ved  till  Carlton  began  to  grow 
jealous. 

The  prisoner's  story  was  that  he  had  committed  no  offence 
whatever;  that  he  had  only,  one  cold  night,  taken  another 
man's  cow  into  his  own  house,  to  keep  her  from  freezing  to 
death. 

Then  the  sentimental  young  lady  gave  him  a  franc  as  she 
bade  him  a  tender  farewell ;  and  they  turned  away  to  visit 
another  tower,  while  all  the  time  the  old  cobbler  pounded 
away  at  his  knees  and  did  not  again  look  up. 

These  towers  are  small  affairs  and  of  little  good,  either  as 
battlements  or  arsenals ;  but  the  views  from  them  are  splen- 


The   Three   Towers.  457 

did.  Besides,  they  may  be  seen  for  at  least  twenty  miles  up 
and  down  the  coast ;  and  from  almost  any  point  they  look 
quite  as  imposing  as  the  castles  of  the  Rhine.  They  were 
built  in  the  middle  ages,  and  stand  on  the  very  edge  of  a 
perpendicular  granite  wall  of  four  hundred  feet  in  height. 

The  old  inn-keeper,  ex-President  and  Supreme  Judge, 
made  them  a  long  speech  about  the  wickedness  and  falsehood 
of  all  the  under  world,  and  seemed  to  think  that  the  only 
happiness  on  earth  was  to  be  found  in  the  little  cold  and 
stony  Republic  here. 

He  pronounced  bitterly  against  all  newspapers,  and  ad 
vised  the  party  never  to  read  them  under  any  circumstances. 
He  added  gravely  that  he  had  never  read  a  newspaper  in  all 
his  life.  He  told  them  that  but  few  men  in  all  San  Marino 
ever  dissipated  in  that  way,  and  that  there  was  probably  not 
a  dozen  papers  taken  in  all  the  Republic. 

"  Of  course,"  said  he,  "  there  is  not  anything  of  the  kind 
published  in  the  commonwealth  of  San  Marino." 

"  Happy  little  country  !"  sighed  the  General.  "  Let  us 
pause  here,  and  contemplate  an  election  in  the  Republic  of 
the  West  without  one  newspaper  to  hector  the  candidates  or 
call  men  names  !" 

At  the  further  tower  they  were  shown  the  flag  of  the 
country,  a  great  white  banner,  with  designs  peculiarly  its 
own,  and  the  three  towers. 

Here  were  mounted  two  little  brass  mortars,  pointing  their 
noses  like  little  bull-dogs,  scornfully  out  over  all  the  world 
below.  They  were  the  gift  of  the  king  of  Italy,  at  the  time 
of  ascending  the  throne  of  his  re-uriited  country. 

"They  are  about  as  large  as  champagne  bottles,"  said 
Mollie,  "  though  I  should  say  they  would  be,  when  loaded, 
hardly  as  effectual !" 

"  We  have  nine  hundred  soldiers,"  said  the  Supreme 
Judge. 

"  O,  that  the  pretty  little  fiction  which  we  have  so  often 
20 


45 8  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

read  in  the  geography  school-books,  about  the  standing  army 
consisting  of  one  man,  should  be  so  wide  of  the  mark !" 
murmured  the  General.  "  Nine  hundred  men  V" 

"Yes,"  continued  the  head  judge,  "and  the  military  dis 
cipline  is  severe,  and,  like  that  of  Prussia,  includes  all  classes. 
The  uniform  is  less  showy,  as  you  see,  than  that  of  Italy,  and 
the  side-arm  is  a  sort  of  sabre,  and  not  at  all  like  the  short 
Roman  sword  with  its  she-wolf  on  the  hilt." 

*'  Those  three  towers  seem  to  crop  out  on  everything,"  said 
the  contemplative  artist.  They  blossom  on  the  hat  of  the 
policeman,  on  every  gateway,  on  every  wall,  on  the  buttons 
of  every  officer  and  soldier." 

"  Yes,"  said  Carlton,  "  even  on  the  only  coin  minted  in 
the  Republic,  the  five  centime  piece,  the  three  towers  make 
the  one  prominent  feature." 

•As  they  walked  along  the  brow  of  the  mountain,  towards 
the  inn,  they  saw  a  woman  mowing  grass  on  a  very  steep  and 
dangerous  slope.  She  was  bare  footed,  bare-legged;  her  hair 
Imng  down  her  back,  blowing  in  the  wind ;  and  she  swung 
her  scythe  with  a  strength  and  resolution  that  was  refreshing 
to  see.  A  rope  was  tied  around  her  waist,  and  above  her, 
on  a  safer  spot,  her  husband  held  stoutly  to  one  end,  so  as  to 
secure  her  if  she  should  miss  her  footing.  How  she  did 
strike  out  and  swing  her  long  arms  !  What  perfect  confi 
dence  she  had  in  the  truth  and  strength  of  that  tawny-beard 
ed  republican  ! 

"  One  falls  to  wondering,"  said  the  General,  very  seriously, 
"  how  many  accidents  there  would  be  chronicled,  if  this  sort 
of  work  was  necessary  and  general  in  the  greater  but  newer 
Republic !  " 

Mollie  wanted  one  of  the  party  to  go  down  and  give  the 
man  a  franc  ;  but  as  he  evidently  had  the  best  end  of  the 
bargain,  so  far,  at  least,  as  himself  and  wife  were  concerned, 
Carlton  respectfully  declined. 

"  But  I  am  so  hungry,"  at  last  cried  Mollie. 


The   Three    Towers.  459 

And  this  was  the  signal  that  the  day's  wandering  was 
done ;  for  this  little  Californian  maiden  was  a  tyrant  in  mat 
ters  of  the  table,  who  was  not  to  be  trifled  with. 

Their  dinner  was  made  up  entirely  of  San  M-arino  products. 
Tlie  wine  seemed  to  be  the  best  they  had  found  on  the  Adri 
atic.  The  old  man  told  them  he  had  made  it  himself  nearly 
twenty  years  before,  from  grapes  that  had  first  been  hung  all 
the  winter  to  dry  in  his  house. 

Carlton  filled  his  glass  and  emptied  his  bottle,  vowing  at 
every  glass  he  would  reform  to-morrow. 

Then  four  bottles  were  opened  simultaneously,  and  set  out 
before  them  on  the  snowy  linen  cloth  of  republican  manu 
facture,  and  the  dinner  was  rated  a  glorious  success. 

They  first  drank  a  rousing  health,  and  a  long  life  to  the 
Republic.  Then  Mollie  made  a  speech  to  the  host  on  Woman's 
Rights,  which  he  did  not  in  the  least  understand,  and  ended 
by  proposing  the  health  of  the  man  who  held  on  to  the  rope 
while  his  wife  did  the  work.  The  men  of  the  party  protested, 
but  drank  to  the  health  of  the  women. 

Then  Carlton  made  a  Four th-of- July  speech  about  their 
own  great  Republic,  and  again  the  glasses  were  baptised  with 
wine. 

How  the  old  host  did  enjoy  it  all !  and  how  he  waddled 
about  as  he  brought  them  their  food  with  his  own  hands,  and 
called  them  fellow  citizens  !  and  how  he  rocked  from  foot  to 
foot,  and  shook  his  fat  proportions  as  he  stood  behind  their 
chairs  and  waited  for  their  orders. 

At  last  the  splendid  dinner  was  nearly  finished,  and  they 
were  very  near  to  the  bottom  of  their  bottles.  One  more 
glass  remained  to  each.  The  General  now  arose,  with  a  little 
assistance,  (the  very  least  in  the  world!)  and  fired  a  speech 
of  thanks  at  the  helpless  old  host,  and  then  proposed  his 
health. 

This  was  agreed  to  with  a  huzza,  and  each  man  seized  his 
bottle  by  its  black  neck,  as  if  he  would  throttle  it  on  the  spot. 


460  T^he  One  Fair    Woman. 

The  bottles  were  tilted,  and  then  the  golden,  gleaming  uii- 
bottled  sunshine  that  the  fat  old  host  had  corked  up  twenty 
years  before,  when  he  was  perhaps  neither  so  old  nor  so  fat, 
went  whirling,  eddying,  bubbling  and  brimming  in  the 
glasses.  But  in  the  centre  of  each  little  whirlpool  there  gath 
ered  a  group  of  black  little  objects,  as  if  bent  on  holding 
a  democratic  convention  there  and  then. 

The  ladies  looked  down  into  the  glasses  and  giggled.  But 
the  men  were  too  glorious  now  to  hesitate  at  trifles. 

"  I  should  like  to  interrupt  you  here,  General,"  said  Mu- 
rietta,  "  long  enough  to  suggest  that  it  was  perhaps  the  best 
year  for  flies  twenty  years  ago,  when  our  good  host  bottled 
his  wine,  that  there  had  been  for  a  long,  long  time  !  " 

Mollie  said  she  had  four,  and  proceeded  calmly  to  fish 
them  out  with  her  fork.  Carlton  tried  to  look  straight  into 
his  glass,  but  in  vain.  He  remarked,  however,  that  he  thought 
he  had  caught  two,  but  that  they  swam  around  so  fast  he 
could  not  count  them.  Then  his  mind  took  an  anatomical 
turn,  and  he  gravely  asserted  that  they  were  perhaps  the  best 
preserved  flies  to  be  found  outside  of  the  Catacombs  of  Egypt. 

The  General,  who  was  making  his  speech  to  the  host,  re 
fused  to  be  interrupted  again,  but  kept  firing  his  Fourth-of- 
July  sentiments  right  into  San  Marino,  as  represented  by  its 
innkeeper,  ex-president,  and  Supreme  Judge. 

The  speaker,  as  he  proceeded,  became  eloquent  beyond 
measure.  He  sailed  the  American  eagle  gloriously  over  the 
broken  crags  of  San  Marino,  and  perched  this  garrulous  bird 
on  every  tower  of  the  Repiiblic.  And  then,  in  a  fit  of  enthu 
siasm  and  burst  of  uncommon  eloquence,  forgetting  all  about 
the  flies,  he  drained  his  glass  at  a  gulp  and  sat  down,  and 
the  dinner  was  done. 

They  took  a  siesta  after  that ;  and,  as  the  sun  went  down, 
they  stood  again  on  the  high  natural  battlements  of  San  Ma 
rino,  preparatory  to  making  the  descent. 

The  sea  seemed  almost  under  them,  although  twenty  miles 


The   Three   Towers.  461 

away.  There  were  a  thousand  sails  in  sight  on  the  still  blue 
Adriatic,  and  they  were  sails  of  all  colors  and  forms  and 
conditions.  Nothing  looks  more  beautiful  on  all  the  sea  than 
one  of  these  Venetian  vessels,  with  its  great  yellow  sails  and 
its  red  cross  in  the  centre. 

What  a  barren  and  broken  land  is  this  of  San  Marino  ! 
If  there  is  a  single  spot  of  ten  acres  in  extent  of  decent  level 
land  in  all  the  Republic,  you  cannot  see  it !  and  you  can 
easily  see  every  foot  of  land  within  its  lines  from  the  high 
tower-topped  rocks.  You  see  some  flocks  of  goats  and  some 
cows,  and  you  see  at  the  base  of  the  great  bluff  some  vines 
and  fruit ;  but  the  ground  seems  a  cold,  heartless  and  in 
hospitable  soil.  All  the  streets  are  walled  and  bedded  in 
masonry  to  prevent  the  soil  from  washing  away  ;  and  often 
you  see  great  walls  built  to  keep  the  cold,  blue  and  barren 
ground  from  sliding  clown  the  mountain  sides. 

Standing  here,  and  looking  toward  the  sea,  one  can  easily 
understand  why  this  place  kept  its  independence  ;  for  this 
one  road  must,  nine-tenths  of  the  year,  be  so  muddy  and 
broken  as  to  be  impassable. 

At  first,  the  good  old  Saint  Marino  came  here  to  escape  per 
secution,  and  took  refuge  in  these  high  rocks.  No  doubt  he 
had  some  few  followers  with  him.  And  then  it  may  be 
easily  imagined  that  his  gentle  life  and  nature  drew  the  rude 
mountaineers  around  him ;  and  when  his  long  life  was 
finished,  his  patriarchal  form  of  government  fell  on  some 
worthy  survivor ;  and  so  on,  till  it  took  the  shape  of  the 
present  system  of  government. 

For  the  first  few  centuries  there  was  certainly  nothing 
whatever  to  tempt  the  conqueror  to  San  Marino ;  and,  finally, 
when  it  had  a  little  importance,  its  natural  defences  pro 
tected  it,  till  at  last  it  became  the  fashion  of  the  world  to 
respect  it.  And  now  it  is  perhaps  the  most  secure  and  inde 
pendent  government  in  all  the  world  ;  for  who  would  lay 
hands  upon,  or  give  any  law  or  direction  to  little  San  Marino  ? 


462  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

These  people  imagine  that  it  is  their  own  wisdom  and  valor 
and  good  management  that  has  carried  them  so  securely 
through  so  many  centuries ;  and  to  talk  with  one  of  their 
officers  on  this  subject  is  the  freshest  and  most  amusing  and 
interesting  thing. 

Away  out  over  the  Apennines  and  Alps,  at  sunset,  the 
man  pointed  out  a  bridle-trail  that  led  to  Florence.  This 
and  the  wagon-road  by  which  our  party  had  entered  were 
really  the  only  ways  of  reaching  the  capital  of  the  oldest  Re 
public  in  the  woi'ld. 

There  was  a  little  headache  in  the  party,  perhaps,  as  they 
shook  hands  with  the  ex-President,  the  keeper  of  the  good 
inn,  and  the  maker  of  old  and  excellent  wine.  But  no  one 
complained. 

Murietta  could  not  help  looking  all  the  time,  as  they  cork 
screwed  their  way  down  the  hill,  away  up  the  sea  coast 
towards  Ravenna,  where  Dante  lies  buried,  and  where  Byron 
lived  his  happiest  days  and  wrote  his  worst  works. 

Nearly  thirty  miles  away,  the  strange  old  town,  that  has 
retired  'from  the  sea.  as  if  at  last  weary  of  life  and  labor, 
lay  like  a  white  spot  on  the  broad  valley. 

What  sharp  and  constant  contrasts  one  comes  upon  here  in 
this  land  of  fruits  and  flowers  !  Mountains  to-day  and  val 
leys  to-morrow ;  snows  of  the  Alps  at  noon,  and  the  soft 
sweet  summer  of  Como  at  night. 


CHAPTER   LY. 


A    GONDOLA. 


HE  sun  was  setting  down  be 
hind  the  ^Egean  Hills,  like  a 
great  hemisphere  of  fire.  Our 
friends  sat  together  on  the 
balcony  of  the  Grand  Hotel, 
the  artist,  Carlton,  Mollie, 
and  her  parents.  They  were 
silent,  for  there  was  majesty 
in  the  scene.  All  Venice  was  silent. 
Not  a  song  was  heard  to  float  any 
where  on  the  salt  flood  street.  They 
sat  on  the  balcony  together ;  where 
Desdemona  had  sat  and  listened  to 
the  wooing  of  the  Moor ;  for  lo  !  her 
palace  is  now  an  hotel.  A  thousand 
ships  went  to  and  fro  and  far  away, 
slowly  and  silent,  under  the  gold  and  glory  of  the  dying  sun. 
The  full  salt  flood  tide  lapped  and  laughed  in  careless  cadence 
around  the  marble  steps  of  the  ancient  palace,  as  people  went 
and  came  in  and  out  of  the  dark  side  streets  in  their  darker 
gondolas,  as  if  from  caves  of  the  sea. 

Carlton  was  sitting  close  to  the  side  of  Mollie.  The  Gene 
ral  was  running  his  mind  down  the  grooves  of  his  gridiron  of 
railroads,  and  Mrs.  Wopsus  was  dreaming  on  in  her  negative 


464  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

and  non-committal  way,  intent  only  on  protecting  her  hands 
and  face  from  the  insinuating  blood-bites  of  the  mosquitoes. 

The  great  white  cockatoo  that  Marietta  had  purchased  in 
Home,  that  it  might  absorb  and  receive  to  itself  the  wasted 
affections  of  Miss  Mollie,  was  also  on  the  balcony,  that  he 
might  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air  with  the  rest  of  the  family  ; 
but  he  hung  and  swung  in  Ids  cage  from  his  iron  bar  quite 
unnoticed  now.  The  little  brown  poodle,  with  its  eyes  quite 
hidden  in  a  mass  of  tangled  hair,  that  came  down  over  its  face 
as  if  it  had  been  a  monk  in  a  cowl,  went  butting  and  bumping 
its  little  head  around  against  the  marble  banisters,  marble 
walls,  marble  seats,  and  marble  ottomans,  as  if  it  was  quite 
neglected.  What  could  all  this  mean  ?  Had  Mollie  found 
something  else  to  love  ? 

"  The  people  are  getting  in  from  the  station,"  said  Mrs. 
Wopsus,  looking  up  the  canal  towards  the  depot,  and  wiping 
her  eyes. 

This  observation,  which  was  neither  very  pathetic  nor  pro 
found,  though  perhaps  it  embodied  the  length  and  breadth  of 
the  views  of  this  simple  lady  of  California,  was  at  once  con 
firmed  by  a  number  of  gondolas — now  open,  for  the  sun  was 
down — just  then  rounding  a  turn  in  the  Great  Canal  and 
driving  down  upon  the  hotel. 

Travellers  are  gregarious.  Each  season  in  each  city,  as  a 
rule,  finds  its  own  favorite  hotel,  and  when  the  happy  propri 
etor  finds  the  tide  flowing  to  his  doors,  he  may  sit  down,  as 
they  too  often  do  in  Italy,  and  consider  his  fortune  made. 

The  travelling  world,  for  this  season,  had  fallen  upon  the 
Grand  Hotel,  and  of  course  all  new-comers  went  directly  to 
the  palace  of  Desdemona,  for  there  they  knew  they  would 
meet  with  fellow  travellers.  I 

As  the  open  gondolas — with  their  great  cargoes  of  Saratoga 
trunks  piled  high  in  the  stern,  and  men  and  women,  travel- 
stained  and  worn,  looking  up  with  wonder  at  the  mighty 
palaces — drew  near,  Mollie  arose,  and  with  a  hand  on  the 


In  a   Gondola.  465 

shoulder  of  Cavlton,  stood  tiptoe,  and  leaning  and  looking  as 
if  she  was  discovering  a  new  world,  cried  : 

"  The  pink  Princess  !  the  pink  Countess  !  Bet  your  life !  " 
And  Mollie  clapped  her  little  rosy  hands  together,  stumbled 
over  the  little  brown  poodle,  bumped  her  head  against  the 
hanging  cage  of  the  discarded  cockatoo,  and  darted  down  the 
marble  steps  with  outstretched  hands,  and  her  warm  little 
heart  gushing  with  hearty  welcome  for  the  poor  travel- worn 
woman  who  was  coming,  as  she  supposed,  to  a  strange  house 
filled  only  with  strangers. 

There  was  a  cast  of  care  on  the  face  of  Marietta  at  this 
announcement.  At  almost  any  previous  period  of  his  life  he, 
too,  had  rushed  down  with  the  warm-hearted  Mollie,  or  at 
least  followed  her  quietly,  as  did  Carlton  and  her  parents,  and 
stood  on  the  marble  landing  to  receive  her,  and  make  her 
glad  with  cheering  words  of  welcome. 

But  now  he  did  not  move  to  meet  her.  He  was  growing 
older  and  a  little  more  wise  with  woman.  Perhaps  he 
recalled  the  last  painful  day  in  Rome,  and  her  singular 
behavior  when  he  last  had  seen  her. 

At  all  events,  whatever  may  have  been  his  thoughts,  he 
only  rose  from  his  seat,  walked  out  to  the  edge  of  the  balcony, 
laid  his  hands  on  the  marble  banisters,  and,  leaning  a  little 
over,  looked  down  into  the  approaching  gondola. 

There  indeed  was  the  pink  Countess,  settled  back  against 
the  high,  black  lifting  cushion,  with  her  little  left  hand 
thrown  out  over  the  black  arm  of  the  seat  into  the  sea,  as 
if  she  was  a  great  rose,  withering,  thirsting  for  the  water. 
She  did  not  lift  her  eyes.  She  was  so  languid,  so  weary, 
and  she  seemed  so  helpless.  She  looked  and  behaved  like 
a  little  child  that  was  being  carried  helplessly,  it  knew  not 
where. 

Rose  and  pink  and  the  rustle  of  silk  under  the  black  man 
tle,  that  fell  and  trailed  loosely  from  her  half  bare  shoulders. 
The  same  dress  of  perfect  abandon  and  carelessness.  The 
20* 


466  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

same  effort  not  to  be  beautiful,  which  only  made  her  more 
beautiful  than  before. 

As  the  gondola  drove  down  the  salt  flood  street  towards 
the  marble  landing,  Murietta  held  his  breath  with  admiration. 
She  seemed  to  him  to  be  herself  the  whole  barge.  She  looked 
like  a  great  red  rose,  wide  blown  and  drifting  away  on  the 
waves  to  the  sea. 

She  seemed,  soiled  and  worn  as  she  was,  as  if  she  might 
have  been  some  great  red  rose  that  had  been  worn  in  the 
breast  of  some  god  or  Titan  lover,  till  withered  in  the  sun  and 
soiled,  and  then  thrown  carelessly  in  the  tide  to  float  away 
and  go  God  knows  where. 

On  the  seat  before  her  sat,  or  rather  reclined,  half  doubled 
up,  an  old  man  with  hair  as  white  as  wool.  Close  behind 
this  gondola  came  another.  There  was  the  little  boy  Sunshine 
whom  we  have  seen  before,  and  beside  him,  with  her  arm 
about  his  waist,  was  the  lady's  maid.  But  over  and  above 
these,  standing  up,  as  if  he  encompassed  them  and  kept  them 
for  ever  under  his  thumb,  to  the  amazement  and  disgust  of 
Murietta,  stood  Guiseppe.  This  assassin,  this  reformed  or  uii- 
refbrmed  brigand,  was  acting  the  part  of  courier ;  and,  stand 
ing  there,  was  giving  directions  to  the  gondoliers  of  both  craft 
where  to  land  and  where  to  leave  the  baggage,  and  bearing 
himself  altogether  in  a  manner  which  showed  that  he  held 
things  much  in  his  own  hand. 

It  was  with  the  greatest  effort  that  the  old  man,  by  lean 
ing  on  the  arm  of  the  General  and  holding  the  hand  of 
Mollie,  could  make  the  ascent  of  the  steps.  He  was  dying 
indeed.  The  long  delay  and  the  anxiety  at  Rome  had  done 
its  worst. 

Then,  when  the  Countess — whose  face  lighted  up  with  its 
old  sad  beauty,  as  she  lifted  her  great  brown  eyes  and  saw  the 
face.s  of  her  friends — attempted  to  land,  she  almost  fainted,  and 
nearly  fell  into  the  water  from  weakness  and  exhaustion. 

And  these  two  helpless  people  were  in  charge  of  this  brigand," 


In  a   Gondola.  467 

this  coward,  and  this  tool  of  an  association  that  was  organized 
to  prey  upon  foreigners  ! 

Marietta  was  ashamed  that  he  had  stood  aloof.  He  was 
vexed  with  himself;  and  when  the  party  had  disappeared 
under  the  balcony  and  entered  the  hotel,  he  paced  up  and 
down,  wondering  why,  at  this  particular  time,  when  she  so 
much  needed  a  kind  word  and  the  encouragement  of  familiar 
faces,  that  he  of  all  the  party  should  have  stood  aloof,  and 
frowned  from  his  high  place  of  safety  because  she,  too,  had 
come  to  Venice. 

"  I  have  been  with  her  often,  perhaps  too  often ;  and  now 
that  she  comes  here,  a  timid  woman  and  a  stranger,  and  in 
the  hands  of  a  bad  man,  and  helpless — I,  I  am  the  man,  and 
the  only  man,  to  stand  back  on  my  high  balcony  and  refuse 
to  reach  her  a  hand  from  the  land  to  whei-e  she  floats  in  the 
troubled  sea.  I  am  an  ass  !  a  consistent  ass,  and  a  coward  !  " 

Thus  the  man  reflected  to  himself  as  he  paced  the  balcony 
in  the  twilight  alone,  and  saw  the  stars  come  out  and  fall 
through  the  great  profound  into  the  sea. 

Then,  as  if  to  make  amends  and  to  appease  his  conscience, 
he  resolved  to  never  again  withhold  his  hand  and  his  help  from 
any  woman,  come  what  might ;  but  to  go  on  through  life  to  the 
end  as  he  had  lived — in  the  teeth  of  the  world. 

Mollie  and  (Jarlton  came  on  the  balcony  together  soon  ;  and 
the  impulsive  Murietta,  rushing  up  to  the  former,  enti-eated 
her  not  to  leave  the  Countess  a  moment,  but  to  remain 
with  her,  watch  over  her,  take  care  of  her  as  if  she  were  her 
sister. 

Mollie  promised  to  do  everything  that  could  be  done  or 
that  was  necessary,  and  then  turned  to  the  cage  and  pretend 
ed  to  be  talking  to  the  loud  and  garrulous  cockatoo  with  its 
lifted  crest  and  yellow  curve  of  gold,  while  in  reality  she  was 
talking  to  Carlton. 

Murietta  was  in  a  mood  again  and  half  disgusted  with 
himself.  He  went  down,  took  a  gondola,  entered  the  black 


468  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

little  cabin,  and  taking  out  a  roll  of  cigarettes,  drifted  away 
with  the  retiring  tide  and  dreamed  of  Annette  and  of  his 
near  departure  for  Como,  and  prophesied  and  planned  till  the 
morning  star  rose  up  from  the  Adriatic  Sea  and  pointed  like 
a  finger  into  the  teeth  of  the  lion  of  Saint  Mark. 

He  slept  late  next  day,  as  indeed  did  all  of  his  party,  as 
well  as  the  new  arrivals,  and,  in  fact,  as  did  and  does  all 
Venice  at  this  season  of  the  year. 

The  Countess  did  not  appear  at  dinner ;  but  when  the  artist, 
with  a  cigarette  in  his  fingers,  found  his  way,  as  was  his  cus 
tom,  rather  late  on  the  balcony,  she  rose  to  meet  him,  and 
came  forward  in  the  old  languid  way,  which  in  her  was  such 
perfect  grace,  and  gave  her  two  hands,  and  greeted  him  as  if 
nothing  had  ever  happened,  as  if  that  parting  in  the  palace 
had  never  been,  and  as  if  they  had  been  the  best  of  friends 
for  all  the  years  of  their  lives. 

Her  father  was  there,  too,  and  Sunshine  ;  and  they  were 
all  going,  when  the  sun  was  down,  in  a  little  fleet  of  gondolas 
down  to  the  sea. 

Murietta  led  the  lady  to  her  seat  again,  bad  her  welcome  to 
Venice,  wished  her  pleasure  in  the  proposed  twilight  excur 
sion  ;  and  then,  shaking  hands  with  her  father,  sauntered  over 
to  the  other  side  of  the  balcony,  and,  lighting  his  cigarette, 
began  to  fire  a  double-barrelled  volley  of  smoke  across  the 
canal  at  the  colossal  figure  of  Fortune  which  tops  the  Dogana, 
and  holds  its  great  golden  scroll  to  the  winds,  and  turns  with 
every  passing  breath  like  a  true  courtier  of  the  changeful 
time. 

There  was  a  rustle  of  rosy  silk,  and  a  small  baby  hand  in 
pearl  and  pink  fluttered  down  to  where  his  rested  on  the  bal 
cony,  as  if  it  had  been  a  weary  and  a  lonesome  little  dove  of 
Saint  Mark  seeking  out  its  mate. 

The  artist  turned  his  face  to  her,  for  he  was  not  displeased 
with  her,  but  with  himself. 

"  You  will  go  with  us,"  she  said,  in   her  soft  dreamy  way. 


In  a  Gondola.  469 

"  Father  will  have  a  gondola  by  himself,  for  he  prefers  to  lie 
down  and  be  alone,  and  the  courier  will  be  in  the  boat  to 
take  care  of  him,  though  I  shall  keep  all  the  time  in  reach* 
for  I  don't  more  than  half  like  this  Giuseppe  ;  and  then  Mol- 
lie  and  Carlton  will  have  a  gondola ;  and  then  the  General 
and  Mrs.  W.  will  have  another,  and  so  you  see  it  will  be 
roomy  and  pleasant  enough.  Come,  you  will  rest  on  the 
water  and  be  refreshed. 

"  I  will  go  with  you,  Countess,"  he  said,  thoughtfully,  turn 
ing  to  her;  "you  see  it  is  my  disposition  to  be  at  your  side 
when  you  are  fresh  and  free  of  care ;  but  to  draw  back  and 
stand  aloof  when  you  come  to  my  house,  as  it  were,  weary 
and  worn,  and  in  need  of  a  kind  word." 

"  No,  no,  not  so  !  'I  would  not  have  thine  enemy  say  so.' 
Pardon  the  poor  quotation,  but  it  is  the  truth ;  besides,  this 
is  the  palace  of  Desdemona." 

"  You  forgive  me,  then  ?  " 

"  With  all  my  heart.     There  !  " 

The  little  dove  that  had  fluttered  down  on  the  balcony  by 
his  hand  fluttered  up  and  lit  on  his  extended  palm ;  and,  press 
ing  it  gently,  he  led  her  down  the  steps  to  where  the  sea-foam 
floated  about  the  marble  steps  at  the  landing,  for  the  party 
had  already  gone  down  and  taken  their  places,  and  were 
quietly  pushing  off  and  out  toward  the  open  sea. 


CHAPTER  LVI. 


DRIFTING. 


STOOD  in  Venice  on  the  Bridge 
of  Sighs,"  cried  Mollie,  looking 
back  over  her  shoulder  at  the 
Countess,  and  showing  her 
pretty  teeth  as  they  pushed  off. 
"  I  propose  a  fine  of  a  dozen 
bottles,"  answered  Carlton,  "  on 
the  first  man,  woman,  or  child 

.  who  quotes  or  misquotes  Byron 
for  the  remainder  of  the  even- 


"  0,  which  were  best, 

To  roam  or  rest, 
Land's  lap,  or  ocean's  breast  ?  " 

said  Mollie,  looking  sideways  under  her  falling 
hair  to  the  lover  at  her  side,  while  her  hand 
trailed  down  in  the  warm  sea  water  over  the  side  of  the  little 
gliding  gondola. 

Little  Sunshine  threw  back  his  long  hair  and  looked  up  at 
the  large  bright  stars,  while  the  stars  looked  right  down  into 
the  bright,  clear  sea,  as  women  look  into  a  glass  and  see  their 
own  beauty,  and  seemed  glad  and  light,  and  ready  to  dance 
with  delight. 


Drifting.  AJ  \ 

The  old  General  sat  planning  a  railroad  in  the  sea,  and 
Mrs.  W.  wiped  her  eyes  and  looked  at  her  delighted  daughter, 
and  still  maintained,  without  effort,  her  reputation  for  elo 
quent  silence. 

The  Countess  seemed  lost,  as  was  her  wont,  in  the  flower 
bed  of  rose  and  pink  and  pink  and  rose,  and  ever  and  anon 
turned  her  face  to  her  father,  who  very  tranquilly  rested  at 
full  length  on  his  lifted  couch,  as  the  little. fleet  softly  drifted 
away  to  the  sea,  and  the  gondoliers  kept  time  with  their  oars. 

Then  the  great  round  moon,  yellow  and  large  and  indolent, 
rose  up  slowly  behind  the  island  of  Saint  Helen,  and  shad 
owed  its  way  along  the  billows  of  the  Adriatic  till  it  stood 
above  the  waves,  and  then  moved  slowly  through  the  masts 
and  ropes,  and  the  thousand  crossed  and  yellow  sails  that 
marched  and  countermarched  before  the  City  of  the  Sea. 

Cannon  were  booming  from  some  distant  battlement  in 
celebration  of  some  great  deed  or  day,  and  the  water  seemed 
to  tremble.  Now  and  then  a  star  would  loosen  from  the 
upper  deep,  and  drop  swift  and  silent  through  space  as  if 
shaken  loose,  to  either  burn  to  death  or  drown  itself  in  the 
sea. 

There  were  bands  of  music  playing  in  the  gardens  on  the 
little  islands  as  they  passed,  and  now  and  then  rockets  and 
Roman  candles  shot  up,  as  if  in  answer  to  the  signals  sent 
down  from  the  upper  world. 

The  oars  of  the  gondoliers  flashed  fire  and  flamed  with 
phosphorescent  light,  even  with  the  slightest  touch  of  the 
warm  soft  water,  and  little  Sunshine  leaned  and  trailed  his 
hands,  and  played  as  if  with  cloven  tongues  of  fire.  The 
heart  was  full  and  satisfied. 

"  O !  that  we  could  now  drift  and  drive  into  the  infinite. 
I  think  that  somewhere  near,  and  very  near,  are  the  shores 
of  the  eternal  world,  and  that  one  might  touch  and  land  to 
night,  and  never  taste  of  death." 

Murietta  did  not  speak.     His  hand  was  touching  hers,  as 


472  The  One  Fair    Woman. 

if  by  accident.  He  opened  his  palm  and  took  her  hand  in. 
his,  and  pressed  it  for  his  answer.  She  drew  her  hand  away, 
and  then  they  drifted  on,  and  she  did  not  speak  again. 

The  little  fleet  drew  around  the  convent  of  Armenian 
monks  on  the  little  Isle  of  Cypresses,  where  Lord  Byron 
wrote  the  first  cantos  of  "  Childe  Harold,"  and  the  Countess 
beckoned  a  return. 

"  I  must  be  pressing  on  for  the  Tyrol  as  soon  as  we  have 
had  a  day  of  rest,"  she  said  to  Murietta,  by  way  of  apology 
for  the  early  return. 

"  And  you  are  alone  ;  the  Count  is "  The  artist  hesi 
tated. 

"  The  Count  is  still  in  Rome.  He  tells  me  it  is  impossi 
ble  for  him  to  get  away ;  that  his  affairs,  my  affairs,  in  fact, 
are  too  much  involved  for  him  to  be  able  to  get  away  till  I 
have  paid  an  enormous  sum  of  money,  which  is  not  just  now 
at  my  command.  Oh,  I  had  the  hardest  time  to  get  away  ! 
Do  you  know  that  that  old  Admiral  tried  to  prevent  my  es 
cape  from  that  hot  and  unhealthy  city  ?  I  really  thought 
we  must  all  die  in  Rome.  You  see  when  I  got  all  ready  to 
come,  they  pretended  that  I  should  and  would  be  arrested  if 
I  tried  to  go  away  without  settling  numerous  bills  and  pay 
ing  incredible  sums  that  no  one  ever  heard  of  before." 

"  And  how  did  you  accomplish  it  finally  ?  " 

"  I  simply  gave  the  Count  cheques,  cheques  for  all  I  had, 
and  blank  cheques  to  fill  up  at  his  pleasure." 

"  And  so  left  Rome  a  ruined  woman,  so  far  as  your  fortune 
is  concerned,"  answered  the  artist  emphatically. 

"  What  chance  had  I  ?  We  were  dying  in  Rome.  I 
should  have  gone  mad  on  the  spot.  Do  you  know,  that  after 
yon  came  away,  those  bold,  bad  men,  who  were  always  drunk 
in  outer  parts  of  the  palace,  actually  entered  my  pai'lor  and 
refused  to  leave?" 

"  But  the  Count,  your  husband  !  Good  heavens  !  was  he 
helpless  ?  " 


Drifting.  473 

"  The  poor  gentle  Count,  my  husband,  was  helpless.  They 
bullied  him,  told  him  he  was  allowing  his  American  wife  to 
rule  him,  and  really  terrified  him  into  breaking  open  my 
doors  and  effecting  an  entrance  into  my  private  apart 
ments." 

"  And,  lady,  what  did  you  do — poor  child,  with  your  Ita 
lian  husband  and  Count,  who  is  so  weak  as  to  prefer  his 
boon  companions  and  countrymen  to  his  wife,  and  to  take 
side  forever  against  her  ?  " 

"  What  could  I  do  ?  I  appealed  to  the  authorities.  I  was 
told  that  in  this  land  the  husband  is  lord  and  master  of  the 
house,  and  all  that  is  in  it.  and,  too,  can  control  every  move 
ment  of  his  wife.  My  father,  at  last,  dying  as  he  was,  man 
aged  to  call  in  the  consul.  But  nothing  could  be  done.  I 
simply  left  my  house  in  the  possession  of  these  men,  and 
by  paying  and  still  by  promising  these  enormous  sums,  I 
managed  to  get  out  of  Rome  alive." 

"  Well,  lady,  I  struck  your  husband,  I  sprinkled  his  blood 
on  the  floor  and  on  the  wall.  I  was  ashamed  of  it  then,  but 
I  am  not  soriy  now." 

"  There  !  Do  not  speak  of  that.  Never  speak  of  that  to 
me  again,"  said  she.  "  You  were  wrong,  you  were  brutal. 
My  husband,  the  Count,  is  a  gentleman.  He  is  not  wicked. 
He  is  weak,  but  he  is  not  wicked." 

"  Woman  !  woman  !  woman  !  "  mused  Murietta  to  himself, 
as  the  party  once  more  drew  near  the  hotel.  "  Woman ! 
woman  !  woman  !  I  will  never  understand  you,  study  you 
and  your  motives  as  I  may  !  " 

"  Do  you  know  my  father  still  thinks  we  may  meet  with 
my  brother  in  the  Alps  somewhere,"  said  she,  suddenly 
turning  to  Murietta  just  before  landing. 

k*  Well,  if  it  is  a  pleasure  and  a  consolation  to  the  old 
man,"  answered  the  artist,  "  do  not  rob  him  of  it.  Nearly 
all  the  pleasure  of  life  is  made  up  of  delusions ;  but  you  will 
never  see  your  brother  any  more." 


474  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  But  we  may,  Mr.  Marietta,"  she  urged.  "  It  is  not  im 
possible,  you  know." 

"  And  how  about  the  ring  ?  " 

"  Oil,  it  is  the  ring  that  gives  us  still  hope.  You  see  father 
is  a  very  wise  man,  with  a  cool  practical  head,  and  he  says 
that  brother  may  have  sent  the  ring  to  Koine,  knowing  that 
in  time  it  must  fall  in  with  Americans,  and  possibly  with  his 
own  people,  or  into  the  hands  at  least  of  some  one  who 
knew  him.  "  Yes,"  sighed  the  Countess,  "  father  thinks  he 
is  still  in  the  Alps,  in  the  hands  of  the  bi'igands,  who  hope 
by  a  long  silence  to  secure  a  still  greater  ransom  for  his 
release." 

"  And  what  has  been  done  with  the  ring?  " 

She  opened  her  brown  eyes  and  looked  at  Marietta  as  if 
she  was  not  quite  certain  that  she  had  done  a  wise  thing,  and 
was  sorry  for  the  fact  she  was  about  to  relate.  "  Well,"  she 
went  on  at  last,  "  father  said  the  ring  belonged  to  the  old 
Admiral,  who  claimed  to  have  bought  it  at  an  obscure  shop 
in  a  low  street ;  and  as  I  could  not  have  any  rest  about  it,  and 
as  they  were  tormenting  my  father  about  it  all  the  time,  weak 
and  dying  as  he  was,  I  gave  it  up  to  the  man." 

"  You  gave  it  up  to  your  brother's  murderers  ! "  said 
Murietta. 

"  God  help  us  all,"  she  answered,  "  there  is  much  that  I  do 
not  understand.  But  I  must  take  care  of  my  father,  and 
keep  them  from  tormenting  him.  They  put  him  on  the  rack 
to  extort  money  or  whatever  they  chose  from  me.  O,  if  I 
were  only  among  my  kind  once  more." 

"  Well,  lady,  you  shall  be  among  your  kind  again.  Be 
patient.  Take  care.  Go  to  the  Tyrol ;  cross  the  mountains, 
and  then  drop  down  the  Rhine  and  cross  the  channel,  and  you 
are  safe." 

"  But  I — I  have  promised  to  not  leave  Italy.  And  do  you 
see  that  big,  sleek  ruffian  who  has  been  put  in  charge  of  my 
boy  ?  " 


Drifting.  475 

"  In  heaven's  name,  could  you  not  choose  your  own  servant 
and  courier  ?  " 

"  I  ?  I  could  take  nothing  but  this  man.  I  could  not 
take  a  step  without  consenting  to  keep  this  man  constantly 
with  me,  and  solemnly  promising  not  to  leave  Italy." 

"  But  you  shall  leave  Italy,  nevertheless,  if  you  like," 
the  artist  whispered  earnestly,  "  there  is  certainly  enough 
American  manhood  in  Venice  to  help  you  through." 

She  turned  to  the  artist.  "  Do  you  know  what  you  are 
saying  ?  You,  Murietta,  you  are  a  dreamer,  I  know  just 
what  you  feel  and  believe.  But,  mark  me  !  you  will  find 
that  when  a  thing  like  this  is  to  be  put  to  the  test,  every  man 
is  busy  with  his  own  affairs.  Do  you  know  what  answer  you 
would  receive,  if  you  went  to  any  man  with  my  story  and 
asked  his  assistance  and  counsel  ?  " 

"  I  do  not," 

"  You  would  be  referred  to  the  lady's  husband." 

Just  then  the  boat  touched  the  marble  landing,  and  the  two 
stood  a  moment  on  the  step  after  leaving  the  gondola,  before 
following  their  party. 

"  We  go  in  the  morning  early,  before  the  sun  is  hot  on  the 
plains  of  Verona,"  said  the  lady,  "  and  I  must  now  say  good 
bye,  and  I  give  you  my  hand  in  token  of  eternal  friendship, 
and  I  give  you  a  thousand  thanks  for  what  you  have  done — 
aye,  even  what  you  have  wished  to  do  for  my  welfare." 

She  reached  her  hand  as  she  spoke.  He  lifted  it  to  his  lips, 
let  it  fall,  said  good-night,  and  returned  to  the  gondola. 


CHAPTER  LVII. 


WE  WILL  KEFOKM  TO-MORROW. 


HE    days  were    dull   enough, 
now  that  the    Countess   was 
gone  away  and  would  never 
come    again ;    and    Murietta 
wandered  about  over  Venice, 
feeding    the    doves   of   Saint 
Mark  now,  and  now  winding 
through   the  dark  and    lone 
some     passages     so    full     of 
strange,  black-eyed,    and  mysterious 
people.     He  was  decidedly  lonesome 
now,  for  Carlton  also  had  left  him. 

That  young  man,  who  was  forever 
reforming  to-morrow,  had  displaced 
the  great  white  cockatoo  and  the 
small  blue  poodle  in  the  heart  of 
Mollie,  and  now  the  two  lovers  were  perpetually  drifting  and 
driving  away  in  a  gondola  together. 

At  last,  to  the  infinite  relief  of  Murietta,  the  fifteenth  day 
of  August  was  at  hand.  That  was  the  day  on  which  he  had 
decided  to  set  out  for  Lake  Como,  where  he  had  determined 
to  try  his  fortune,  and  win,  if  possible,  the  brave,  true  heart 
of  Annette.  That  day  to  him  had  become  a  sort  of  a  Day 
of  Declaration. 


We  will  Reform    To-morrow.        477 

He  was  bidding  Carlton  good-bye  one  evening,  as  he  stood 
with  the  inseparable  lovers  on  one  end  of  the  marble  balcony, 
while  the  General  and  Mrs.  W.  occupied  the  other  end,  and 
looked  out  over  the  sea,  or  fed  from  their  hands  the  doves 
that  fluttered  about  the  balcony. 

"  And  so  you  leave  us  in  the  morning  for  Como,"  sighed 
Carlton,  with  an  effort. 

"  Oh  !  won't  it  be  jolly,  Carlton,"  chimed  in  the  merry- 
hearted  Mollie.  "  Everybody  will  be  at  Como  but  us.  I 
declare  it  is  too  bad  !  Come,  let  us  go  to  Como,  too." 

"  I  have  not  the  least  objection  to  going  to  Como,  my  dear, 
as  your  gallant  knight ;  but  what  will  the  General  say  ?  " 

"  Ask  him  !  "  answered  the  mischievous  Mollie,  looking 
up  sideways  from  under  her  little  sailor's  hat. 

"  Ah  !  that's  what  I  have  been  thinking  about  for  a  month. 
I  declare  I  have  got  real  thin  over  the  agony  and  the  anxiety. 
Ask  him  !  yes,  that's  easily  said." 

"  Shall  I  ask  him  for  you  ?  "  said  Marietta  kindly. 

"  No,  but  we  will  do  it  together.  Come  !  all  three  of  us 
abreast,"  laughed  Mollie. 

With  Carlton  supported  between  them,  they  moved  down 
upon  the  General,  who  sat  there  feeding  the  doves  of  Saint 
Mark  from  his  hand,  and  forgetting  for  the  nonce  all  about 
his  gridiron  of  railroads. 

"  There  now  !  softly,  you  young  people,  and  don't  frighten 
them.  There  now  !  See  what  you  have  done  !  I  had  three 
of  them  feeding  out  of  my  hand  at  once." 

"Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  seignior,"  began  Carl- 
toii  at  last,  in  a  faltering  voice. 

"  Go  on,  go  on,"  whispered  Mollie,  as  she  punched  him 
affectionately  with  her  elbow,  "  go  on,  that's  all  right ;  that's 
bully,  bet  your  life  !  that's  just  the  thing,  for  this  is  Desde- 
mona's  palace,  where  the  bloody  Moor  told  his  piteous  tale." 

"  Most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  seignior,"  again  faltered 
Carlton,  "  rude  am  I  in  speech " 


478  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  Now  don't  frighten  my  doves,  do " 

"  And  but  little  gifted  with  the  set  phrases  of- 


"  Why  what  in  the  name  of  sense  does  the  man  mean  to 
frighten  away  my  doves  ?  " 

"  Well  go  on." 

"  I  mean,  General,  that  I  want  this  particular  dove  of  yours 
for  my  own." 

"The  great  railroad  man  fell  into  a  brown  study.  At  last 
he  raised  his  head  and  said,  "  Well,  I  reckon  I  had  better 
give  her  to  a  Saxon  poet  than  a  Latin  prince.  But  how,  my 
dear  Carlton,  about  your  fondness  for  wine?  " 

"  General,"  said  Carlton  earnestly,  "  I  will  reform  to-mor 
row  ;  won't  I,  Mollie  ?  " 

The  innocent,  light-hearted  girl  from  the  great  West  looked 
up  through  her  tears,  half  laughing,  from  under  her  sailor's 
hat,  and  leaning  affectionately  on  Carl  ton's  arm  as  she  turned 
her  eyes  to  his,  said  saucily,  "  Bet  your  life  !  " 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 


COMO    AT    LAST. 

MUST  have  a  house  on  Lake 
Como,"  wrote  Pliny,  "  but  I 
dare  not  have  any  windows  in 
it  that  look  out  upon  the  lake, 
for  if  I  do  I  shall  never  be  able 
to  do  any  work." 

There  lies  the  long  thin  sheet 
of  peaceful  water,  pointing  like 
a  long  finger  from  out  of  the 
rugged  heart  of  the  Alps,  right 
down  into  the  great  level  plain  of  Lombardy. 

This  hand  that  points  this  long  thin  finger  is 
half  doubled  up  at  Bellagio,  which  is  about 
midway ;  and  one  finger,  the  lesser  one,  points 
off  at  an  obtuse  angle  to  the  soiith. 

In  the  forks  of  this  long  thin  lake,  where  the 
fingers  divide,  stands  Bellagio,  the  centre  of  the 
earth,  and  of  which  we  shall  see  more  by  and  by. 

On  the  extreme  end  of  this  long  thin  finger,  pointing  down 
and  out  of  the  Alps  straight  into  the  great  plain  of  Lom 
bardy,  has  grown  a  great  wart.  This  wart  is  called  the  City 
of  Como.  It  is  as  old,  perhaps,  as  Jerusalem.  It  was 
founded  by  the  Greek  colonists  before  Rome  was  thought  of. 
You  can  see  the  Greek  in  the  faces  of  the  people  ;  particu- 


480  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

larly  in  the  faces  of  the  wonderful  women.  On  the  old  cathe 
dral,  storm- stained  and  eaten  by  the  tooth  of  time,  and  washed 
into  channels  and  furrows  by  the  rains  of  heaven,  as  if  the 
faces  of  the  marble  men  had  really  wrinkled  from  age,  you 
see  the  statues  of  the  two  Plinys. 

Old,  very  old  indeed,  is  this  town  of  Como,  and  yet  only 
yesterday  they  erected  a  great  fountain  in  their  great  square, 
and  last  year  built  a  hundred  houses  that  look  like  palaces. 
The  old  town,  like  a  hundred  others  in  Italy,  is  being  galva 
nized  into  new  life  by  the  gold  of  English  and  American 
travellers.  Tell  an  Italian  this,  however,  and  he  will  be 
sorely  offended.  He  will  insist  that  Italy  is  full  of  re 
sources,  that  she  does  all  this  herself,  and  does  not  at  all  need 
the  money  of  the  stranger.  He  will  tell  you  that  Italy  has 
always  been  great,  a  power,  and  the  centre  of  the  earth. 
Let  an  American  dare  to  dispute  this,  and  the  proud  Italian 
will  strike  an  attitude,  and  say  to  him,  "  Why,  we  discovered 
you  !  " 

It  was  the  fashion  at  this  particular  season  of  which  we 
write,  to  sit  down  at  or  near  Bellagio.  Como,  the  town  of 
Como  and  its  immediate  neighbors,  had  but  little  business 
this  season,  save  as  depots  of  arrival  and  departure ;  all 
pushed  on  up  the  long,  lovely  lake,  to  where  it  divided,  and 
there  gathered  about  the  forks. 

"  How  much  it  is  like  the  Mississippi  River,"  thought 
Murietta  to  himself,  who  had  left  the  train  at  Como  and  was 
now  running  up  the  lake  to  the  great-little  centre  of  Bellagio. 
"  it  would  be  precisely  like  that  wide,  clear,  crooked  river  of 
the  West,  but  for  these  overhanging  mountains  and  these 
noble  palaces  on  the  edge  of  the  wave,  with  their  feet  in  the 
cool  sweet  water,  as  if  to  cool  in  this  sultry  season,"  said  the 
man  to  himself,  as  he  rolled  another  cigarette  and  elbowed  his 
way  through  the  dense  crowd  of  passengers  to  the  other  side 
and  looked  up,  away  up  through  the  white  fleecy  clouds,  at  a 
beautiful  old  place  of  worship  perched  like  a  great  grey  eagle 


Como  at  Last.  481 

of  tlie  Rocky  Mountains  on  the  topmost  crag.  "  Nay,  it  is 
just  like  the  Columbia,"  he  said,  as  he  looked  again,  "  for 
there  drift  the  sunny  clouds,  there  lift  the  toppling  crags,  and 
here  are  the  mossy  rocks  in  the  water's  edge  and  there  the 
wild  foliage  on  the  steep  and  stupendous  shore  of  lifted  and 
rifted  mountains."  And  then  he  forgot  the  crags  and  clouds 
above,  and  looked  down  into  the  thousand  little  pleasure 
boats  that  moved  and  wound  across  and  about,  and  bore  little 
flags  and  light  hearts  and  happy  uplifted  faces  that  looked 
cuiiously  into  the  crowd  of  travellers  for  friends  and  fellow 
tourists. 

Of  these  flags  one  half  were  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  a  great 
number  were  English,  and  not  a  few  Italian.  It  was  notice 
able  that  there  was  not  a  craft  afloat  without  a  Saxon  face 
somewhere  to  be  seen  among  the  passengers  or  seekers  of 
pleasure. 

Over  and  across,  from  side  to  side,  the  little  steamer  shot 
from  town  to  town,  and  took  in  or  set  down  tourists  ;  and 
made  at  least  forty  calls  on  one  side  of  the  long  lake  or  the 
other,  wedged  down  there  between  the  walls  of  the  Alps,  be 
fore  it  touched  at  Bellagio. 

As  they  neared  this  town,  cutting  across  the  narrow  lake 
from  Cadenabbia,  Murietta  stood  out  on  the  prow}  and  kissed 
his  hand,  once,  twice,  thrice,  and  very  fervidly,  at  the  beauti 
ful  Bellagio,  for  it  was  there  he  knew  he  should  once  more 
meet  the  grand  and  wonderful  woman,  Annette. 

As  you  near  this  town,  coming  up  the  long  narrow  lake 
that  points  straight  out  through  the  Alps  into  the  great 
plains  of  Lombardy,  you  will  see  that  the  lake  is  much  wider 
above  you,  and  you  can  see  where  a  high  and  lifted  mountain 
pushes  its  nose  abruptly  into  the  lake,  and  splits  it  in  two. 

On  the  north  side  of  this  steep  and  pine-topped   little 

mountain  stands  Bellagio,  a  little  town  of  only  two  or  three 

thousand  souls  of  mixed  Greek  and  Italian  blood  ;  and  these 

mostly  keepers  of  shops,  chop  houses,  and  wine  shops,  besides 

21 


482  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

an  unreasonable  number  of  priests  in  black  and  grey,  and 
brown,  and  tall,  fine-looking  fishermen  and  boatmen ;  and 
then,  too,  an  intolerable  number  of  hard-looking  Italians, 
who  can  safely  be  set  down  as  brigands  and  assassins,  who 
are  quite  ready  for  any  job,  from  acting  as  courier  and  inter 
preter  for  parties  abroad  who  have  more  money  than  know 
ledge,  up  to  stealing  a  stranger's  child,  or  assassinating  their 
own  great  king. 

It  is  remarkable  that  here,  at  the  north  base  of  this  little 
round  pine-crowned  mountain,  lifting  up  abruptly  in  the 
forks  of  the  lake,  and  almost  surrounded  by  its  waters,  stand 
two  of  the  most  beautiful  hotels  in  all  Europe.  They  stand 
almost  quite  down  at  the  edge  of  the  water,  with  only  room 
enough  for  little  walks,  through  woods  and  flowers  as  beauti 
ful  as  paths  through  paradise.  All  along  the  edge  of  the 
lake  there  stand  double  rows  of  sycamore  trees ;  and  under 
these  trees,  on  the  stone  benches,  sit  tourists  by  hundreds  in 
the  cool  fresh  mornings  of  the  summer  time,  whipping  the 
lake  with  their  fish-lines,  and  fishing  their  breakfasts  of  fish 
from  the  populous  lake. 

Boats  with  lovers  go  by  in  perfect  little  fleets  all  the  time, 
and  at  night  they  hang  them  with  many-colored  lamps ;  and 
it  is  said  that  lovers  meet  on  the  waters  of  this  lake  of  all 
lakes  by  preconcerted  signals  made  of  these  many-colored 
lamps,  which  they  alone  can  read  and  understand. 

Murietta  knew  that  Annette  and  her  people  were  at  the 
Hotel  Grande  Bretagna.  Therefore  he  went  to  the  Hotel 
Grande  Bellagio. 

If  you  have  a  poor  opinion  of  the  world,  you  should  go  to 
Como,  sit  down  at  Bellagio  for  a  month,  and  rest  there. 
After  that  you  will  be  quite  satisfied  that  there  is  upon  earth 
at  least  one  place  where  there  is  beauty,  and  beauty  only  ; 
peace,  and  perfect  peace. 

But  if  you  will  have  a  courier  with  you,  who  is  constantly 
keeping  you  in  hot  water  by  his  thefts  and  extortions  j  if  you 


Co-mo  at  Last.  483 

will  travel  with  a  lot  of  loud  people  at  your  heels,  who  do 
not  know  what  rest  is ;  and,  finally,  if  you  will  insist  on  put 
ting  up  at  the  Grande  Hotel  Bellagio,  instead  of  going  to 
an  old-established  and  less  extortionate  house — why,  do  not 
blame  Bellagio  if  you  do  not  rest,  but  blame  yourself. 

Another  man,  of  course,  would  not  for  a  moment  have 
thought  of  any  other  hotel  than  the  one  where  the  queen  of 
his  heart  was  staying.  The  artist  would  sooner  have  camped 
under  one  of  the  sycamore  trees  by  the  side  of  the  lake.  He 
loved  this  woman  so  devotedly.  He  feared  to  trust  himself 
in  her  presence,  perhaps.  Perhaps  he  feared  that  he  might 
disturb  her  by  his  presence.  In  truth,  had  he  been  asked 
the  reason  why  he  so  determinedly  sought  another  place  to 
put  up  at,  he  could  not  have  answered  at  all.  Then  do  not 
expect  us  to  answer  for  him.  We  must  be  content  to  state 
the  fact.  There  may  be  those  who  themselves  have  loved  as 
this  man  loved,  and  they  will  understand. 

He  stood  on  the  high  balcony  of  his  hotel,  and  looked 
down  the  lake  to  the  Hotel  Grande  Bretagna,  and  kissed  his 
hand  to  it.  Further  down  the  lake,  along  the  lane  of  syca 
more  trees,  stood  the  palace  of  the  Duke  of  Lodi,  whose 
family  had  been  dignified  by  that  title  by  the  little  Corsican 
on  the  battle-field  of  Lodi.  Across  the  lake,  in  savage  gran 
deur,  lifted  the  Alps,  where  the  Russians  attempted  to  pass, 
and  perished ;  and  these  Alps  had  little  cities  all  along  their 
base  on  the  ed^e  of  the  water,  and  little  white  churches 

O  * 

about  their  rugged  brows,  where  blew  white  clouds  perpe 
tually  like  wreaths  and  puffs  of  battle-smoke  blown  from  the 
battlements  of  Titans. 

Peace,  and  the  perfect  summer.  Cool  waters,  and  music 
all  the  time  floating  on  the  waters  from  under  the  banner 
of  strange  lands.  People  coining  and  going  away.  Beauti 
ful  Saxon  women,  and  tall,  half  Greek  fishermen.  Citizens 
sitting  in  the  cool  of  the  trees  by  the  water.  Clouds  blowing 
against  the  blue  sky.  White  snow  peaks  flashing  afar  off  in 


484  The  One  Fair   Woman. 

the    sun.     Fruit    at  your    hand    and  flowers    at    your    feet. 
Peace  in  the  air.     Comeliness  everywhere.     This  was  Como. 

Inconsistent  as  it  may  seem,  Murietta  could  scarcely  rest, 
could  not  dine  at  all  till  he  had  stolen  down  to  the  other 
hotel  and  quietly  asked  the  clei'k  if  the  one  fair  woman  and 
her  friends  were  there.  He  was  certain  of  this  before.  He 
was  just  as  certain  that  they  were  at  the  one  hotel  as  he  was 
that  he  was  at  the  other.  But  he  could  not  help  stealing 
down  and  asking  after  her  with  studied  indifference.  Those 
who  can  understand  the  first  action  will  understand  this. 

But  his  inquiry  was  not  without  results.  He  found  that 
they  were  not  actually  in  this  house,  but  in  a  dependence  of 
this  hotel,  up  on  the  top  of  the  little  pine-topped  mountain 
with  its  nose  pushed  into  the  forks  of  the  lake,  before 
described.  He  had,  in  fact,  been  kissing  his  hand  at  the 
wrong  house. 

He  walked  up  towards  this  dependence,  lifted  so  high  above 
him,  sitting  there  among  the  pines  and  ruins,  looking  down 
on  the  whole  water-locked  world,  and  the  Alps  wedging  the 
lake,  but  -was  stopped  at  a  gate  by  an  old  woman,  who 
demanded  either  a  ticket  or  money  to  enter. 

"  Good  !  "  thought  the  artist  to  himself.  "  She  is  shut  in 
from  the  mob.  This  is  right.  The  world  shall  not  look 
upon  her.  Perhaps  fewer  men  will  see  her  now.  But  this 
is  near  enough  for  to-night.  I  will  come  nearer  to-morrow." 

As  he  turned  down  towards  his  hotel,  he  saw  the  retreat 
ing  figure  of  the  old  Admiral.  He  was  gorgeously  dressed, 
tnd  walked  as  if  he  owned  the  town. 

Whose  death  did  the  presence  of  this  terrible  shark  in 
these  waters  portend  ? 


CHAPTER  LIX. 


SITTING    BY    HER    SIDE    AT    LAST. 

OW  one    can    sleep,    and   sleep,   and 
sleep  at  Como  !     And  how  perfectly 

you  do  rest !     Every  muscle  relaxes. 

" 

3  The  mind  sleeps.  It  seems  to  enter 
a  paradise  of  repose  and  rest  on  a  bed 
of  roses,  till  the  body,  at  noon-day, 
comes  and  calls  back,  wakes  up,  the 
mind.  No  wandering  of  the  soul  in 
to  the  infernal  regions.  No  dreams 
of  death.  No  strife.  Nothing  but 
peace  and  repose. 

The  artist  waited  a  long  time  for  a 
fit  hour  to  call  the  next  day.  At  least  it 
seemed  to  him  a  very,  very  long  time.  At 
last  he  passed  the  little  iron  gate  and  began 
to  ascend  the  long  steep  steps  that  led  to  the  lofty 
abode  of  the  beautiful  woman.  He  looked  at 
his  watch  as  he  neared  the  house  in  the  pines  and  ruins,  and 
fearing  he  was  too  early  and  might  reveal  some  haste  and 
eagerness  if  he  presented  himself,  then  turned  off  to  the  left, 
and  took  a  walk  through  the  two  or  three  miles  of  little  paths 
that  wound  over  and  through  and  about  this  rugged  pine- 
topped  mountain  with  its  lofty  nose  pushed  into  the  middle 
of  the  lake. 

He  drew  nearer  the   house  once   more.     There  was  the 
sound  of  carriage  wheels.     lie  stopped  in  the  dense  foliage, 


486  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

till  at  length  he  heard  the  carriage  drive  away.  He  thought 
that  it  might  be  Annette,  about  to  drive  out  in  the  shadow  of 
the  mountain  in  the  cool  of  the  afternoon,  and  he  would  not 
think  of  detaining  her  a  moment.  Perhaps  he  was  glad  of  an 
excuse  to  wait  a  few  minutes  longer.  The  truth  is,  this  man 
had  a  great  deal  rather  have  climbed  up  a  mountain  all  bris 
tling  with  red-tongued  cannon  and  faced  them  and  attempted 
to  answer  back  their  thunder,  than  advance  upon  this 
woman  in  her  lovely,  leafy  hermitage.  He  stood  back  in 
the  wood,  a  coward. 

Then  he  stood  out  in  the  clearing,  looked  down  the  steep, 
corkscrew  carriage  road  under  the  ruins  and  pines,  and  saw 
in  the  retreating  carriage,  Annette. 

After  that  he  advanced  boldly  enough,  and  came  up  to 
the  cool-shaded  fountain  before  the  house,  and  spoke  to  the 
good-natured  block  of  chiselled  midnight  who  stood  there 
grinning  as  he  advanced ;  and  then  he  really  felt  that  he 
had  done  a  great  deal  and  advanced  his  cause  quite  sufficient 
ly  for  that  day ;  and  so,  after  talking  with  the  black  man 
about  the  big  magnolia  tree  that  stood  there,  and  the  many 
beautiful  plants  and  flowers  familiar  to  the  South,  he  went 
back  to  his  hotel  a  very  happy  man.  The  old  Admiral,  he 
found,  was  at  this  hotel. 

The  evening  was  dull  enough.  There  was  but  one  person 
in  all  the  region  of  Como  that  he  cared  to  see,  and  he  dared 
not  call  on  her  after  dark.  In  fact,  it  was  quite  as  much  as 
he  could  accomplish  in  the  daytime. 

It  is  true  there  were  boat  races  and  rockets.  And  then 
there  was  a  fine  Italian  band  playing  before  nearly  every 
hotel  on  the  lake  till  there  was  a  perfect  discord  of  music, 
but  these  had  not  charms  for  Murietta.  His  mind  had  been 
strung  to  a  higher  note  than  any  instruments  there  could 
reach. 

He  sauntered  out  alone,  and  as  usual  found  his  way  to 
the  old  and  humble  parts  of  the  place.  A  dark  narrow  street 


Sitting  by  her  Side  at  Last.          487 

it  was,  and  it  reached  steeply  up  the  hill,  and  over-arched  iu 
places  by  coverings  reaching  from  one  palace  to  another. 
This  kept  out  the  light  of  the  large  bright  stars,  and  made  it 
dark  indeed.  A  great  lamp  hung  here,  and  under  this  lamp 
was  set  a  table,  around  which  were  grouped  a  party  of  Italian, 
gamblers. 

The  little  black-eyed,  threadbare  doctor  with  the  retreat 
ing  moustache,  whom  we  have  seen  in  Rome,  sat  there  on 
the  edge  of  the  crowd,  looking  now  at  the  game  and  now  at 
the  passers-by. 

Murietta  saw  this  man  and  tried  to  escape  unnoticed,  but 
the  black  restless  eyes  were  too  quick  for  him,  and  the  little, 
nervous,  black-eyed  Italian  arose  and  followed. 

The  artist  quickened  his  pace,  after  slipping  a  knife  up 
his  sleeve,  so  as  to  be  prepared  for  any  emergency,  and  did 
not  stop  to  turn  around  till  he  stood  in  a  more  wide  and 
open  street,  where  respectable  Christian  faces  were  more  fre 
quent. 

The  doctor  was  right  upon  his  heels,  and  had  his  hat  in 
his  hand  and  his  hand  on  his  breast,  and  was  bowing  very 
humbly,  even  as  he  turned  around. 

"  Every  one  comes  to  Como,  signer,  at  this  season ;  and 
I  am  delighted  to  meet  you  here,  and  trust  we  may  be  friends, 
or  at  least  not  enemies,  for  I  am  certain  I  can  serve  you." 

"  And  how  the  devil  do  you  propose  to  serve  me  ? " 
savagely  and  contemptuoxtsly  asked  the  artist. 

"By  not  serving  the  Admiral,"  answered  the  doctor  sharply. 

"Well,  as  to  that,  perhaps,  you  had  as  well  remain  with 
your  old  master.  Don't  betray  him.  Honor  among  thieves, 
you  know.  At  all  events,  I  have  no  use  for  you  whatever ; 
you  have  only  to  keep  out  of  niy  way.'' 

The  artist  turned  on  his  heel  as  he  spoke,  and  went  on 
through  the  town  by  the  great  gray  stone  church,  that  is  for 
ever  and  ever  clanging  out  of  tune  and  oi\t  of  time,  as  if  de 
termined  that  no  one  shall  ever  rest  in  Bellagio. 


488  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

He  gave  no  thought  to  this  man  further  than  to  suppose 
he  only  wanted  to  get  a  few  francs,  which  he  did  not  care  to 
give  him.  He  certainly  looked  in  want  of  money.  And 
then  beggars — beggars  of  all  kinds — are  so  plentiful  in  Italy, 
that  you  soon  learn  to  instinctively  button  up  your  pockets 
the  moment  you  see  a  man  approaching  you. 

Yet  it  was  a  little  inconsistent  that  the  old  Admiral  should 
be  shining  in  gold,  like  a  pawnbroker's  clerk,  while  his  friend 
and  fellow  robber  was  so  destitute  and  threadbare. 

Putting  all  concern  or  care  behind  him,  and  thinking  only 
of  the  lady  on  the  little  mountain  of  pines  and  ruins,  the 
artist  slept  well,  and  awakened  only  when  the  long,  light 
finger  of  the  sun  reached  in  and  pointed  to  the  Swiss  clock  on 
the  mantel,  which  had  just  struck  twelve. 

At  two  o'clock  he  was  walking  alone  among  the  pines  and 
ruins,  and  waiting  for  the  tardy  hour  of  four  to  turn  round, 
so  that  he  should  present  himself  at  the  throne  of  his  queen. 

Three  !  It  seemed  that  four  would  never  come.  He 
walked  and  walked,  time  after  time,  every  foot  of  the  wind 
ing,  pleasant  way,  around  and  over  and  through  the  hollowed 
mountain-top,  till  weary  enough.  Then  the  noisy  old  grey 
stone  church  shouted  out  the  hour,  and  in  a  little  time  the 
black  man  was  leading  him  to  her  parlor. 

The  same  quiet  welcome,  that  had  no  utterance  in  words. 
The  same  silent  eloquence  of  the  soul.  The  great  eyes  that 
understood  you  too  well,  and  made  you  tremble  for  yourself, 
unless  you  felt  something  of  manhood  in  your  make-up,  and 
felt  your  own  integrity.  All  these  were  here. 

The  General  had  drifted  out  on  his  dreamy  battle-cloud, 
and  now  hung  under  the  magnolia-tree  fast  asleep  in  his  ham 
mock,  with  his  half-finished  cigar  in  his  fingers. 

The  lady  led  the  artist  out  on  the  balcony  overlooking  the 
two  lakes,  or  rather,  the  two  branches  of  the  one  lake,  that  lay 
almost  together  under  them.  The  sun  went  down  suddenly, 
as  if  he  had  lost  his  way,  and  fallen  asleep  in  the  Alps ;  and 


Sitting  by  her  Side  at  Last.          489 

then  they  sat  in  the  matchless  twilight,  that  was  made  alone 
for  lovers. 

He  was  utterly  silent.  He  was  satisfied.  He  was  grate 
ful  to  God.  He  did  not  ask  any  more  than  this.  lie  never 
had  asked  more  than  to  sit  before  her.  To  see  her  untold  and 
unutterable  beauty,  and  to  breathe  the  air  wherein  she  moved. 

"  You  will  come  again,"  said  the  mother.  And  he  came 
again.  Sometimes  he  found  himself  talking  rapidly  in  his 
half-a-dozen  visits  in  the  fortnight  of  perfect  days  that  fol 
lowed,  and  then  he  would  stop  half  frightened,  and  feeling 
very  awkward,  sit  and  look  at  the  strangely  beautiful  lady 
before  him,  and  listen  to  her  few  words  so  well  chosen,  so 
light  and  pure,  and  so  exalted,  with  a  devotion  that  only  few 
upon  earth  can  understand. 

Murietta  had  never  yet  thought  of  marriage.  That  to  him 
was  a  secondary  matter.  Marriage  to  him  seemed  a  sort  of 
selfishness.  Yet  he  was  forever  determining  to  tell,  and  he 
often  and  often  attempted  to  tell  her  how  he  had  worshipped 
her,  how  he  had  first  seen  her  in  his  dreams ;  how  he  had  painted 
her.  How  he  had  first  met  her  in  society,  and  knew  her  at 
a  glance.  How  he  had  followed  her  to  Italy,  to  Naples,  to 
Home,  to  Como,  to  tell  her  the  story  of  the  flowers  in  her 
path,  the  picture,  and  could  not  summon  the  courage  to  do  so 
— not  even  to  begin. 

One  evening,  this  last  evening,  she  had  spoken  of  the 
picture  herself. 

"  There  is  a  little  story  about  this  picture,  you  know,  and 
I  have  waited  for  it  and  waited  for  it.  You  promised  it  to 
me,  you  remember;  promised  me  the  story  and  the  picture 
at  Como." 

There  was  earnestness  and  candor,  a  touch  of  entreaty  in 
her  voice  and  manner,  as  she  leaned  a  little  forward  and  said 
this  to  the  artist,  tinder  the  great  stars  of  Italy,  and  over  the 
twin  lakes  lying  there  under  them  like  two  lovers, — divided 
and  undivided. 
•21* 


4QO  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

The  artist  was  encouraged.  Could  it  be  possible  that  she — 
she,  the  companion  of  princes — she,  the  most  matchless  and 
magnificent  of  women  in  all  the  world,  should  or  could  care 
for  him,  his  picture,  or  his  story  ? 

He  arose,  stood  up  before  her ;  clasped  his  hands,  looked 
away  to  the  lakes  to  the  right  and  the  left,  the  many-coloured 
lamps  with  the  boats  bearing  lovers,  weaving  and  winding 
and  binding  love-knots  over  the  breast  of  the  beautiful  water, 
but  could  not  speak.  His  lips  were  as  still  as  the  fathomless 
lake  below  them,  and  his  soul  was  as  deep  with  love. 

She  put  out  her  hand.  It  touched  his  clasped  hands,  and 
thrilled  him  with  a  sensation  that  was  new  to  him  and  beauti 
ful  and  holy. 

He  took  her  hand  in  his  and  lifted  it  to  his  lips,  with  his 
head  bent  low  as  if  in  devoutest  worship. 

Then  dropping  the  hand  gently,  he  lifted  his  eyes  and,  look 
ing  the  lady  in  the  face,  tried  again  to  speak. 

He  could  only  say  "  good  night ; "  and  with  that  he  bowed 
low  and  was  turning  to  pass  thi-ough  the  saloon  and  out  to 
the  presence  of  the  magnolia. 

"  And  my  picture  ?  "  asked  the  lady  in  a  low  voice,  as  he 
was  about  to  disappear. 

He  returned  to  her  and  took  her  hand  in  both  of  his,  and 
he  bowed  before  her, 

"  Lady.  O  lady  !  so  exalted,  as  of  an  upper  world.  To 
morrow,  to-morrow  at  this  time  I  will  bring  you  the  picture 
of  yourself.  I  will  tell  you  the  story  of  the  picture  and  of 
the  flowers  in  your  path  on  the  mountain  of  fire.  And  then 
you  will  despise  me,  and  my  story,  and  my  picture  ;  and  you 
will  put  me  away  from  you,  and  I  will  never  see  you  any 
more  in  all  the  weary  world." 

«  Murietta  ?  " 

There  was  balm  and  hope  and  healing  in  the  utterance  of 
his  name ;  a  gentleness,  a  half  regret  at  his  prophecy,  which 
he  dared  believe  meant  much  to  him. 


Sitting  by  her  Side  at  Last.          491 

He  said  "  To-morrow,"  kissed  her  hand  again,  and  was  gone. 

O   Love,    thou  art  blind   indeed. 

To-morrow  ! 

It  was  all  there.  In  the  folds  of  that  day,  the  day  that 
ever  runs  before,  the  mysterious  to-worrow,  with  all  its 
secrets  held  bound  up  in  the  sheaves  for  him,  woodbine  or 
flowers.  Flowers  or  woodbine  ? 

Could  he  wait  ?  He  heard  the  noisy  clock  in  the  old  grey 
tower  clang  every  hour  of  the  night.  He  heard  the  hissing 
little  steamers  come  and  go  with  their  loads  of  tourists,  and 
people  pass  up  and  down  all  the  time  ;  but  he  thought  only 
of  the  to-morrow,  and  what  that  day  might  bring.  He  was 
not  overpleased :  he  was  even  sorry  that  this  had  been  pre 
cipitated.  He  was  perfectly  certain  that  he  should  only  be 
laughed  at,  and  the  beautiful  delusion  of  his  life  destroyed. 

As  the  sun  rose  up,  he  took  his  picture  from  its  place  and 
began  to  arrange  it  for  his  lady.  He  had  not  closed  his  eyes. 
The  to-morrow  now  was  his.  It  was  no  longer  to-morrow ; 
it  was  now  to-day. 

"  What  will  my  lady  say  ?  Will  she  understand  me  ?  She 
has  never  suffered.  She  has  never  gone  on  through  the 
hard  wide  world  alone,  as  I  have  lived.  She  has  never  been 
crucified  in  soul,  and  made  to  fast  and  pray  in  the  wilderness. 
Will  she  understand  me  ?  And  if  she  understands  me,  will 
she  not  despise  me  ?  " 

He  paced  the  floor  excitedly  as  he  said  this,  and  then  he 
stopped  and  suddenly  put  up  his  hand  to  his  brow. 

"  No  !  What  has  she  said  to  me  ?  What  assurance  have 
I  that  she  cares  a  withered  fig  for  me  or  mine  ?  She  has 
said  nothing  ;  done  nothing.  A  thousand  men  may  kiss  her 
hand,  or  any  lady's  hand.  A  thousand  men  have  worshipped 
her  before.  Has  she  slept  last  night  ?  Nay,  she  has  not 
watched  and  watched  and  waited  for  to-morrow  as  I  have 
waited.  Shall  I  be  laughed  at  ?  No,  I  will  pitch  this  picture 
into — Softly  !  I  have  promised  to  take  it  to  her  and  tell  her 
its  history,  and  I  will  do  it." 


CHAPTER  LX. 


THE   OLD    ADMIRAL    PROPOSES. 

T  was  ten  o'clock  ;  and  the  boat 
from  Colico,  at  the  head  of 
Lake  Como,  which  brought 
down  the  hosts  of  tourists  from 
the  Engardine  and  other  places 
of  resort  in  the  Swiss  Alps,  was 
whistling  off  the  little  wharf. 

The  arrival  and  departure  of 
this  boat  were  the  events  of 
the  day.  This  Bellagio  was  the 
great  half-way  place  between  the  Alps  and 
Milan.  Everybody  stopped  here  at  least  a  day 
to  rest ;  many  stopped  months.  But  it  was  on 
this  boat  that  travellers  came  who  had  been  in 
the  Tyrol  or  the  Alps ;  and  it  was  on  this  boat 
that  tourists  took  passage  for  the  nearest  point 
on  the  railroad,  which  was  at  Como,  who  wished  to  return 
to  France,  England,  America. 

Hence  the  coming  and  going  of  this  boat  was  a  great  event ; 
and  there  was  meeting,  and  greeting,  and  good-bye,  and  all 
that,  all  the  time,  from  the  moment  people  began  to  land  till 
she  had  taken  on  her  load  of  down  passengers,  and  pushed  off 
into  the  lake  for  the  edge  of  the  plains  of  Lombardy. 


[fe 


The  Old  Admiral  Proposes.  493 

The  artist,  wishing  to  forget  for  a  moment  the  task  before 
him — the  fortunes  or  misfortunes  that  lay  hidden  away  from 
him  in  the  folds  of  the  next  few  hours,  stood  out  on  the 
great  balcony  of  the  hotel  that  looked  over  the  lake,  and 
watched  the  coming  and  the  going  of  the  people,  the  excite 
ment,  the  embraces,  the  farewells,  the  hurry  and  bustle 
about  the  boat  which  had  just  arrived  and  was  about  to  de 
part. 

There  was  a  very  sick  man  being  carried  on  the  boat  in  a 
litter. 

"  Poor  fellow !  "  sighed  the  artist ;  "  he  has  come  to  Italy 
for  his  health  and  found  his  death.  He  will  never  live  to 
see  old  England  again ;  the  long  ride  through  the  hot  towns 
of  France  will  kill  him." 

A  carriage  was  driving  tardily  down  from  the  hotel  to  the 
wharf. 

The  boat  whistled,  a  bell  rang,  the  rope  was  cast  loose,  the 
boat  pushed  off.  Then  a  lady  was  seen  to  rise  up  excitedly  in 
the  carriage,  cry  out  in  terror,  wave  her  handkerchief,  and 
call  to  the  boat.  She  had  been  left  behind. 

The  lady  sank  back  in  the  carriage  ;  and  then  a  little  boy 
put  his  arms  about  her  neck,  and  they  wept  together.  The 
crowd  which  had  hidden  the  carriage  and  all  bvit  the  face  of 
the  lady  now  melted  away,  and  the  artist  started  with  amaze 
ment.  It  was  the  lady  in  pink,  the  Countess  Edna. 

He  hastened  down  stairs  as  soon  as  he  could  catch  up  his 
hat  and  cane,  and  was  on  his  way  to  her  side  before  he  took 
a  second  thought.  This  man  was  not  accustomed  to  take  a 
second  thought  when  he  found  any  one  in  trouble.  Had  he 
reflected  here  he  might  have  been  less  demonstrative,  but  it 
is  doubtful  if  he  had  deviated  the  least  bit  in  his  course,  or 
in  any  of  his  conduct  which  followed  his  meeting  with  this 
woman  in  this  unfortunate  condition  at  this  most  inopportune 
time. 

Her  little  hand  was  fluttering  with  excitement  as  it  reached 
to  receive  him. 


494  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  We  have  been  left.  My  poor  father  is  gone,  and  gone 
only  with  that  miserable  Italian  servant  to  attend  him." 

"  And,  dear  lady,  how  could  you  allow  them  to  separate 
you?" 

"  There  is  something  wrong  :  there  has  been  all  the  time. 
I  tell  you  some  one  is  at  the  bottom  of  this.  I  suspected  it 
this  morning.  I  told  the  proprietor  of  the  Hotel  Grande 
Belkgio." 

"  And  you  were  at  the  Grande  Bellagio  ?  Why,  I  am 
there  also." 

"  I  knew  it,  I  knew  it.  We  only  arrived  last  night — 
rested  all  night,  and  were  trying  to  post  on  to  England,  for 
father  is  ill  indeed,  and  wants  to  go  home  to  his  native  land. 
Yes,  I  heard  you  were  there  ;  but  as  we  had  only  sickness  and 
trouble  to  tell  you  about,  I  did  not  care  to  trouble  you." 

She  leaned  her  head  over  to  the  artist,  and  whispered 

"  I  promised  not  to  leave  Italy,  but  1  must.  I  must  get  my 
father  to  England.  I  cannot  remain  here  without  him  ;  and 
it  is  not  right  that  he  should  travel  the  long  and  dreadful 
journey  without  me." 

"  Well,  well !  It's  too  bad.  But  you  can't  sit  here  in  the 
hot  sun.  Now  what  is  to  be  done  ?  Tell  me  what  I  can  do 
and  I  will  be  glad  to  do  it." 

"  When  can  I  go  on  ?  " 

"  Not  till  the  evening  boat.  Your  father,  by  that  time,  will 
be  in  Milan,  and " 

"  Merciful  heaven  !  "  sighed  the  lady,  and  she  put  up  her 
little  helpless  baby  hands  as  if  to  hide  her  eyes  from  the  sight 
of  the  strutting  and  pompous  old  Admiral  before  her. 

"  I  am  rough  but  honest,"  said  a  great  voice ;  and  a  man 
with  many  jewels  came  forward  and  put  out  his  hand  to  the 
Countess,  which  somehow  she  felt  compelled  to  take.  "  Yes, 
I  am  a  rough  but  honest  sailor,  and  I  have  come  upon  the 
ground  to  help  you." 

"  Can  you  help  me,    Murietta  ?     Will  you,  will   anyone, 


The  Old  Admiral  Proposes.  495 

help  me  and  get  me  out  of  the  clutches  of  these  treacherous 
men  that  seem  to  hold  my  very  life  in  their  hands  ?  " 

"  Countess  !  "  thundered  the  old  man,  coming  forward  and 
stroking  his  great  chin  and  pulling  his  long  gray  moustache 
right  and  left,  "  I  can  help  you,  and  I  will  help  you." 

"  Only  let  me  get  to  my  father,  get  to  America.  I  will 
give  you  money  ;  heaps  of  money." 

"  Good  !  Now  we  will  get  on,  now  we  will  xinderstand 
each  other,"  said  the  man,  lifting  his  hat  and  laying  his 
hand  on  his  heart. 

"  Get  back  to  the  hotel,"  said  Murietta,  "  and  out  of  the 
sun,  or  you  will  be  ill,  and  then  make  such  arrangements  as 
yoii  can  to  join  your  father.  He  will  certainly  await  you  in 
Milan,  and  telegraph  you  from  the  first  station." 

The  old  Admiral  stood  there  as  if  waiting  to  take  possession 
of  the  Countess  so  soon  as  the  artist  stepped  aside. 

"  Will  you  please  sit  by  me  ?  Take  a  seat  here,"  she  said 
to  Murietta,  as  her  little  pink  hand  nervously  drew  back  the 
rose  and  pink  and  silks  at  her  side,  as  if  she  was  frightened 
almost  to  death  at  the  bold  attitude  of  the  Admiral. 

The  artist  stepped  into  the  carriage ;  ordered  the  man,  who 
was  evidently  in  the  pay  of  the  Admiral  from  the  glances 
they  exchanged,  to  drive  back  to  the  hotel;  and,  sitting  there 
as  the  carriage  turned  up  the  hill,  he  saw  the  doctor  and  the 
old  Admiral  talking  together  in  that  loud  and  belligerent  voice 
and  manner  common  only  among  low  Italians. 

The  lady  returned  to  her  apartments,  and  the  proprietor 
of  the  hotel  smiled  as  she  entered  again,  as  if  he  had  really 
done  a  good  piece  of  business  by  detaining  her. 

"  Now  let  us  see  what  is  to  be  done,"  said  Murietta  cheer 
fully,  as  he  sat  down  opposite  her  in  her  saloon,  and  saw  how 
terribly  she  had  been  worn  by  her  trials  and  troubles  in  the 
Tyrol,  and  how  she  was  now  shaken  up  by  this  new  trouble. 

"  Think  it  out,  Mr.  Marietta,  and  tell  me  what  to  do  and 
how  to  do  it.  I  do  not  know.  Father  could  give  the  direc- 


496  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

tions  and  I  could  take  care  of  him,  and  that  is  the  way  we 
managed  it.  But  here  I  am  now  alone  with  my  little  boy, 
quite  broken  down  myself,  and  quite  at  the  mercy  of  these 
wretches  that  surround  me." 

Murietta  knew  perfectly  well  that  the  case  was  just  about 
as  bad  as  it  could  be;  but  he  pretended  to  laugh  at  it  all,  and 
assured  her  that  she  would  be  able  to  get  off  by  the  evening 
boat  and  join  her  father  at  Milan  that  night.  Thus  it  was 
agreed  to  wait  for  the  evening  boat,  since  nothing  else  could 
be  done ;  and  Murietta  went  out  and  down  in  the  walk  of 
trees  by  the  water. 

"  Now,  sir,  I  am  a  plain,  blunt  man.  One  word  with  you. 
You  remember  I  told  you  all  about  the  Brothers  of  the  Altar 
on  the  Pincian  Hill  in  Rome,"  began  the  Admiral  gruffly,  as 
he  met  the  artist  face  to  face  in  the  walk,  where  he  had  evi 
dently  followed  him.  "  Well  now,  sir,  I  told  you  bluntly 
and  plainly  the  truth,  and  implored  you  to  become  a  member 
of  the  order.  You  did  not  choose  to  do  so.  Very  well,  that 
was  your  own  business.  I  refer  to  this  only  to  call  to  your 
mind  that  I  very  bluntly  and  plainly  told  you  a  great  truth 
at  that  time,  which  you  saw  fit  to  fall  in  a  passion  about  and 
threatened  to  tumble  me  over  the  wall.  Very  well ;  now  I 
have  another  great  truth  to  tell  you,  and  a  proposition  to 
make." 

The  artist  attempted  to  pass  on  down  the  narrow  walk  of 
yew  wood,  but  the  great  monster  of  a  man  still  stood  before  him. 

"  1  have  a  proposition  to  make.  You  are  a  friend  of  the 
Countess;  she  will  do  just  as  you  tell  her.  Now,  sir,  you 
wish  to  serve  her.  She  wishes  to  get  out  of  Italy  with  her 
father." 

"  Yes,  and  will  get  out  of  Italy  with  her  father,  without 
either  your  assistance  or  mine.  And  now  do  you  stand  aside 
orl- 

"  Do  it.  Please  do  it ;  and  I  will  put  you  in  prison,  and 
take  possession  of  the  Countess  myself,  body  and  soul." 


The  Old  Admiral  Proposes.          497 

"  You  insufferable  old  villain  !     What  do  yoxi  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  just  what  I  say.  I  carry  my  heart  in  my  hand, 
1  am  a  rough  but  honest  man.  And  now,  sir,  since  you  will 
not  oblige  me  by  knocking  me  down,  you  will  perhaps  listen 
to  my  proposition.  It  is  this."  Then  the  old  Admiral  stop 
ped  a  moment,  sighed,  reflected  a  time,  and  then  went  on, 
"  I  have  not  lived  the  most  regular  life,  I  admit ;  I  was  born 
a  gentleman,  a  poor  Italian  prince.  Youthful  indiscretions 
drove  me  to  the  sea.  My  brothers  usurped  my  title  and  small 
estate.  I  have  been  a  very  unfortunate  man,  but  now  I  have 
saved  some  money  and  am  getting  old  and  wish  to  retire." 

"  Then,  old  man,  why  not  reform  and  retire,  and  leave  off 
persecuting  a  helpless  woman  and  a  dying  man  ?  " 

"  Because— because  I  cannot  leave  that  woman.  Because — 
because  I  love  her." 

Murietta  clutched  him  by  the  throat  for  a  second,  but  let 
go  and  pushed  him  from  him. 

"  Please  to  choke  me,  sir.  Please  to  do  it,  and  I  will  lock 
you  up  and  have  the  field  for  myself,  and  get  damages  for  the 
assault  besides.  But  listen  to  me.  You  are  a  man  of  the 
clouds.  I  am  a  practical  man.  You  see  what  I  can  do.  I 
knew  the  Countess  must  come  this  way.  There  are  but  two 
roads  out  of  the  Tvrol.  I  came  here  with  my  men.  I  waited. 
You  see  what  I  have  done.  I  have  sent  her  old  father  off 
alone  in  charge  of  one  of  my  men.  She  cannot  leave  Italy 
without  my  consent.  Now,  sir,  her  weak  and  silly  husband, 
the  Count,  who  dares  not  disobey  a  word  of  my  commands,  is 
and  will  remain  in  Home  till  I  give  him  leave  to  come  away. 
Now  I  wish  to  get  out  of  all  these  meshes  of  orders  and  asso 
ciations,  that  are  no  longer  either  creditable  or  pleasant.  I 
swear  to  God  I  will  reform.  I  wish  to  go  to  America  and 
there  settle  down  and  end  my  days  in  peace.  The  Countess 
can  take  me  with  her.  Go  to  her,  tell  her  to  take  me  with 
her  out  of  tne  country.  I  can  escape,  under  the  pretence  that 
I  am  still  watching  her,  for  you  see  I  am  watched  as  well  as 


49 8  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

others,  and  watched  by  my  own  men.  Tell  her  to  take  me 
and  I  will  treat  her  honorably.  I  will  never  say  an  impure 
word  to  her  now,  but  will  win  her  love  by  my  devotion  to 
her  interest  and  her  pleasures.  Tell  her  that  if  she  refuses 
me  this,  she  shall  not  leave  Italy.  No  !  her  boy  will  be  taken 
here,  her  father  there,  and  she  will  be  so  tormented  that  she 
will  wish  a  thousand  times  that  she  had  taken  even  the  vilest 
of  my  propositions." 

Murietta  had  stood  there  with  his  arms  folded  up  and 
doubled  in,  lest  he  should  be  tempted  to  strike  this  monster, 
and  thereby  only  involve  the  Countess  in  deeper  trouble. 
Then,  as  the  man  finished,  he  turned  away  without  a  word 
and  went  down  the  other  end  of  the  walk. 

"  You  will  not  serve  the  Countess,  then,  by  delivering  my 
proposition  ?  "  The  artist  did  not  answer  or  look  around. 

"  Well,  then,"  thundered  the  man  down  the  avenue  of  dark 
wood,  "  her  blood  and  the  blood  of  her  father  and  her  child 
be  on  your  hands." 


CHAPTER  LXT. 


CHILD-STEALING. 


T  was  nearly  evening,  and  the 
Countess  was  walking   in  the 
little  wood  by  the  lake  waiting 
the   arrival  of  the  boat.     She 
was  quite  ready  for  her  depar 
ture.    Murietta  had  done  what 
little  there  was  to  do,  so  as  to 
put    everything    beyond     the 
reach  of  accident ;    and    now, 
all  ready  to  step  into  the  boat, 
she  was  walking  up   and  down  in  the  little 
avenue  on  the   edge  of  the  lake.     The  child 
had   wandered  off,   only   a  few   steps,   to   the 
edge  of  the  vineyard. 

A  man,  a  bare-headed  man,  with  enormous 
ears  and  a  red  face,  came  up  out  of  the  grape 
vines,  spoke  to  Giuseppe,  the  courier  who  had 
charge  of  the  child,  and  then,  darting  forward,  caught  it  under 
his  arm,  and  turned  to  fly.  There  was  a  struggle  and  a 
scream,  and  the  thief  stumbled  and  fell  there  as  he  looked 
back,  for  Murietta  was  upon  him. 

The  kidnapper  dropped  the  child  and  escaped  into  the 
vines.  The  little  thing  was  terribly  frightened  and  fearfully 
bruised  about  the  head.  Life  seemed  extinct. 


500  The  One  Fair    Woman. 

The  boat  came  and  went,  but  the  Countess  sat  all  the  time 
by  a  little  bedside,  with  her  hands  wrung  together,  and  weep 
ing  through  her  falling  hair  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

Who  should  stand  by  her  side  at  such  a  time  ?  This  man, 
who  had  waited  for  this  present  hour,  saw  it  go  by.  He  saw 
his  promise  broken,  as  he  sat  there  alone  with  the  lady  and 
the  little  black-eyed  villain  of  a  doctor,  whom  they  had 
called  in  as  the  only  person  present  bearing  the  name  of  doc 
tor,  and  watched  with  the  little  unconscious  child,  whose  life 
flickered  like  a  dying  lamp  on  the  edge  of  eternity,  and  did 
not  speak  of  Annette,  even  to  himself. 

The  little  sufferer  sat  up  the  next  morning  and  spoke  to 
its  mother.  The  danger  was  over;  and  the  little  doctor,  once 
more  in  the  good  favor  in  which  his  skill  had  placed  him, 
tried  to  approach  Murietta  on  a  subject  uppermost  in  his  mind. 

Italians  advance  directly  upon  nothing.  If  they  wish  to 
talk  about  paradise  they  begin  about  purgatory. 

The  doctor  stood  before  Murietta,  washing  his  hands  in  the 
morning  sunlight,  on  the  little  balcony  before  the  lady's  par 
lor. 

"  The  old  gentleman,  her  father,"  she  began,  ((  will  not  stop 
long  in  Milan.  It  is  too  hot.  Besides,  he  is  dying  ;  and  dy 
ing  men  are  never  satisfied  anywhere.  If  he  lives  he  will  push 
on  to  England  at  once.  But  then  he  will  die  when  he  comes 
to  the  end  of  the  journey  by  the  great  sea,  for  the  excitement 
of  traArel  will  be  over.  There  will  be  a  reaction,  and  then  the 
man  will  die." 

He  stopped  talking,  stopped  washing  his  hands,  and  waited 
for  the  artist  to  answer.  But  he  did  not  answer.  He  lifted 
his  face  up  towards  the  little  pine-topped  mountain,  and  a 
house  there  with  a  balcony  looking  down  on  the  two  lakes, 
but  did  not  speak. 

The  low-browed,  black-eyed  Italian  doctor  began  again  to 
wash  his  hands,  and  to  wag  his  tongue.  This  time  he  moved 
a  little  nearer  to  the  subject  of  his  thoughts. 


Child  Stealing.  501 

"  The  Admiral  wishes  to  get  out  of  Italy,  I  think,"  said  the 
doctor  cautiously,  and  washing  his  hands  very  slowly.  "  You 
see  he  has  got  all  the  money,  and  he  intends  to  keep  it.  He 
got  at  least  a  hundred  thousand  francs  from  the  Countess 
when  she  left  Rome ;  and  here  !  just  look  at  my  clothes. 
Not  a  centime  !  No,  sir  !  not  a  sou  did  I  get  out  of  all  that 
sum!  I  have  followed  him,  sir.  He  intends  to  try  to  cross  the 
border.  He  lingers  about  the  edge  of  Italy,  with  the  pretence 
that  he  must  follow  the  Countess,  and  keep  her  from  reveal 
ing  the  secrets  of  the  order  of  the  Brothers  of  the  Altar." 

"Well!  well  !"  said  Murietta  sharply,  as  he  turned  upon 
the  man,  for  he  was  not  in  a  mood  for  diplomacy,  "  come  to 
the  point.  What  do  you  propose  ?  What  do  you  want  "  ? 

"  Signer,  I  want  money.  If  I  cannot  get  what  is  really 
mine  from  the  Admiral ;  if  he  persists  in  keeping  me  in  rags 
and  wretchedness,  I  shall  enter  the  service"  of  some  one  who 
will  be  more  just  and  generous.  Aye  !  even  enter  the  ser 
vice  of  the  State  of  Italy  !  " 

"  Very  well,  I  certainly  have  no  use  for  knaves.  Enter  the 
service  of  the  state,  or  the  state  prisons  for  aught  I  care  ;  " 
and  Murietta  turned  back  to  the  Countess,  who  had  just  re-en 
tered  the  saloon. 

"  I  have  just  dismissed  Giuseppe  and  my  maid,"  she  be 
gan.  I  have  paid  them  off  and  paid  their  ways  to  Rome. 
They  were  in  a  league  against  me,  and  I  am  certain  were  in 
the  pay  of  the  old  Admiral.  Now  I  am  a  little  more  free," 
she  said,  coming  forward,  and  half  smiling  at  some  remark  of 
the  little  invalid,  who  was  sitting  up  in  bed  and  playing  with 
a  lot  of  toys. 

"  Dismissed  them  both  ?  And  how,  then,  do  you  expect  to 
get  on  your  journey  ?  exclaimed  Murietta,  for  he  knew  full 
well  that  these  dismissed  servants  would  now  make  mischief. 

"  Well !  "  exclaimed  the  lady,  "  I  could  not  get  on  my 
journey  with  them  ;  and  if  I  cannot  get  on  my  journey  with 
out  them,  I  shall  certainly  be  no  worse  off,  and  possibly  a 


502  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

great  deal  better.  At  all  events  I  cannot  afford  to  have 
thieves  and  spies  and  kidnappers  about  me  longer.  It  is  done  ; 
they  are  gone,  and  thank  God  for  it." 

"  Yes,  if  they  only  are  gone,  "  answered  Marietta. 

"  Do  not  frighten  me.  Pray  do  not  t'righten  me, "  pleaded 
the  Countess,  leaning  her  head  in  her  little  baby  hands  as  she 
sank  upon  the  sofa.  "  I  am  not  strong,  and  I  must  keep 
up.  " 

"  No,  no,  you  are  not  to  break  down  now.  Do  not  fear. 
It  is  but  a  little  way  to  Milan.  There  you  can  get  other  ser 
vants,  and  put  yourself  under  the  protection  of  the  American 
consul,"  said  Murietta,  cheerfully,  and  again  stepped  out  in 
the  fresh  morning  air  on  the  balcony. 

A  servant  entered  bearing  a  letter  on  a  great  silver  plate. 
It  was  a  large  square  envelope  bearing  the  arms  of  the  City 
of  Bellagio,  and  was  otherwise  embellished.  There  was  an 
officer  of  the  city  just  visible  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  in  the 
great  hall.  This  letter  was  addressed  to  Murietta,  and  he 
hastened  to  break  the  seal. 

He  started  back.  It  was  a  summons  from  the  syndicate  to 
appear  and  answer,  and  show  cause  why  Giuseppe,  the  cou 
rier,  should  not  carry  the  child  to  Home,  as  he  had  been 
engaged  and  employed  to  do  by  its  father. 

"  Now  what  upon  earth  does  all  this  mean  ?  "  said  the 
man  to  himself.  "What  have  I  to  do  with  the  coming  or 
going  of  this  party,  or  the  affairs  of  this  family  in  any  respect. 
And  so  I  am  to  go  into  court,  and  have  the  rabble  at  my 
heels,  and  be  the  talk  of  the  little  town  !  And  Annette  !  " 

He  went  in  and  spoke  kindly  to  the  Countess,  who  was 
still  bowing  under  the  weight  of  her  troubles.  The  man  was 
in  earnest  now,  and  severe.  He  was  gentle,  but  it  was  a 
sort  of  iron  gentleness.  He  did  not  hint  to  her  of  this  new 
trouble ;'  but  said  he  was  going  out  for  a  moment,  and  would 
return  as  soon  as  possible.  He  left  her  alone,  with  the 
little  black-eyed  doctor  hovering  around  like  a  hawk,  and 


Child  Stealing.  503 

hastened  out  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  for  he  knew  the  polite 
officer  was  not  over-patient  at  his  delay. 

They  walked  through  the  hotel  together,  on  their  way  to 
the  open  street,  and  Murietta  smiled  bitterly  at  the  perfect 
refinement  of  the  manner  of  making  an  arrest  in  Italy. 

"  Ha,  ha  !  "  he  laughed  to  himself,  as  they  drew  near  the 
open  gate  that  led  into  the  street,  "  I  suppose  if  a  man  was 
to  be  sentenced  to  death  in  Italy,  they  would  send  him  the 
sentence  in  a  sweetly  perfumed  envelope,  borne  on  a  silver 
plate  by  a  beautiful  page." 

Sure  enough,  and  just  as  the  troubled  and  now  half-wild 
artist  had  feared,  the  mob  of  fishermen  and  old  women  and 
other  idlers,  who  knew  the  officer,  fell  in  and  followed  to  the 
office  of  the  mayor,  where  they  stood  outside  tiptoeing  up, 
peeping  over  and  under,  and  passing  their  rough,  humorous 
remarks  on  the  appearance  and  bearing  of  the  prisoner. 

Giuseppe  stood  Tip  in  the  midst  of  his  cunning  countrymen, 
and  told  a  terrible  story  about  how  this  artist  had  beaten  his 
master,  a  devout  Catholic,  in  Home.  He  told  that  this  lad's 
heretic  mother  was  trying  to  take  him  away  from  its 
Catholic  father  and  escape  from  Italy  to  England,  where 
it  would  be  brought  up  a  heretic,  contrary  to  its  father's 
expressed  wish. 

How  the  revengeful  Italian  did  gloat  over  the  agony  of 
Murietta  as  he  stood  up  there  and  had  the  ears  of  the  syndi 
cate  and  the  sympathy  of  the  mob.  How  he  did  lie  about 
his  mistress,  as  he  stood  there  with  his  hand  on  the  Holy 
Cross.  He  was  having  his  revenge  for  being  dismissed  and 
disgraced.  Then  he  showed  certificates  of  his  unimpeachable 
character,  from  Italian  priest  down  to  Italian  princes,  and  the 
syndicate  was  perfectly  satisfied. 

Murietta  was  called  upon  to  answer.  He  replied  that  it 
did  not  concern  him  in  the  least,  any  more  than  it  should 
concern  any  gentleman  who  saw  a  countrywoman  in  trouble 
in  a  strange  land  ;  that  he  was  not  on  trial  for  striking  the 


504  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

Count  in  Rome  ;  that  he  had  not  interfered  with  the  affairs 
of  either  the  Count  or  the  Countess ;  that  he  thought  the 
lady  had  a  right  to  be  allowed  to  join  her  father  at  once,  or 
go  out  of  or  enter  into  free  Italy  without  let  or  hindrance, 
and  without  regard  to  the  question  whether  she  was  a 
catholic  or  a  Protestant;  and  finally,  he  bluntly  stated  that 
he  believed  this  Giuseppe  to  be  a  villain  whom  no  lady  could 
trust. 

As  he  stood  there  on  trial,  a  carriage  that  was  passing  be 
came  blocked  and  interrupted  by  the  mob  which  filled  the 
narrow  street  at  the  door. 

As  the  carriage  Stopped  before  the  door,  the  occupant,  with 
a  woman's  curiosity,  looked  in.  It  was  Annette.  She  saw 
Marietta  standing  in  the  prisoner's  stall,  and  on  trial. 

The  syndicate,  in  a  very  graceful  speech,  summed  up  the 
case,  and  decided  very  promptly  that  Giuseppe  had  been 
employed  by  the  child's  father  to  take  it  on  a  tour  through 
the  Alps,  and  then  back  to  Rome ;  and  that  he  must  do  this 
whether  the  mother  willed  it  or  not ;  that  this  man  repre 
sented  the  father ;  and  the  mother  could  not,  or  any  one  else, 
take  the  child  from  his  charge  without  the  father's  consent. 
As  for  Murietta — and  he  was  profuse  here  in  his  flowing 
apologies — he  was  very  sorry  that  he  had  been  brought  to 
answer ;  but  Justice  was  blind,  and  could  not  always  see 
clearly  without  first  hearing  the  evidence.  But  since  he 
found  that  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter,  the  court 
was  very  happy  to  say  that  he  had  nothing  to  answer  for. 

Giuseppe  was  radiant  with  his  triumph.  He  dispensed 
speeches  in  the  noisy  court  room  right  and  left  ;  he  pulled 
his  moustache  and  puffed  his  cheeks,  and  leered  in  the  face 
of  Murietta  with  an  audacity  that  meant  more  than  words 
could  express. 

The  artist  did  not  even  thank  the  magistrate.  He  did  not 
look  right  or  left,  or  lift  his  head.  His  soul  was  filling  with 
a  stubborn  strength,  the  strength  of  a  lion  or  a  bull;  a 


Child  Stealing.  505 

sort  of  mad   strength   that  is  blind  and   dangerous  to  deal 
with. 

The  syndicate  spoke  to  Giuseppe,  and  Murietta  looked  back 
over  his  shoulder  as  he  was  trying  to  elbow  his  way  through 
the  crowd  to  the  door. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  remain  here  or  elsewhere  outside  of 
Rome ;  you  are  dismissed  from  the  service  of  the  Countess; 
therefore  you  cannot  serve  her,  but  must  return  at  once  to 
the  Count.  You  will  take  the  child  and  set  out  for  Rome  on 
the  steamer  to-morrow  morning.  That  is  the  judgment  of 
the  court.  " 

Giuseppe  bowed  almost  to  the  stone  floor.  As  Murietta 
passed  out  of  the  door,  a  man  with  a  very  coarse  voice  said 
to  him  with  an  oath  :  "What  did  I  tell  you?  There  !  do 
you  not  see  that  the  Countess  cannot  leave  Italy  or  join  her 
father  again  without  my  consent?  See  what  you  have 
done  for  her  !  Now,  sir,  if  you  are  her  fiieud,  go  and  tell 
her  to  take  me  for  her  courier.  And  if  she  is  her  father's 
friend,  and  wishes  to  see  him  again,  she  will  take  me  for  her 
lover." 

This  was  the  Admiral.  He  followed  Murietta,  and  hissed 
this  proposition  in  his  ears ;  for  the  artist  would  not  stop  or 
listen  or  look  back,  for  fear  he  should  be  forced  to  knock  the 
man's  teeth  down  his  throat  and  so  find  himself  again  be 
fore  the  syndicate. 

He  went  back  at  once  to  the  Countess.  The  woman  had 
arrayed  herself  in  pink  and  rose.  Her  hair  of  gold  was 
down  about  her  shoulders,  and  there  were  roses  in  her  hair. 
She  was  playing  gaily  at  the  piano,  and  singing  a  merry  song. 
The  little  child  sat  in  bed  still  playing  with  the  toys,  and 
pale  and  silent.  The  Countess  sang  louder  than  before  when 
she  saw  the  artist  enter,  and  smiled  at  him,  with  her  pretty 
baby  face  turned  half  around  over  her  shoulder.  Her  mind 
was  surely  shaken  by  her  troubles. 

The  artist  wanted  a  moment  to    reflect.     He    went  down, 
22 


506 


The   One  Fair  Woman. 


stood  under  the  shady  trees ;  and,  leaning  over  the  wall, 
watched  the  shining  fishes  come,  and  listened  to  the  music 
floating  on  the  waters  from  under  the  great  canvas  canopies 
out  there  in  the  middle  of  the  lake,  with  the  American  Stars 
and  Stripes  floating  from  the  masts  of  the  pleasure  boats. 


CHAPTEE   LXII. 


LOVE,  OR   DUTY? 


HESE  men,  whoever  they  may 
be,  who  float  that  barge  and 
fly  that  banner,  must  now 
assist  this  woman.  I  have 
done  all  I  can  do.  I  have 
sacrificed  everything  and 
achieved  nothing.  I  am  not 
a  patient  man.  I  shall  now 
go  to  older  and  abler  heads, 
and  tell  them  just  how  this  lady  is 
situated.  I  will  get  up  a  feeling 
among  her  countrymen  in  her  fa 
vor  that  will  bear  her  right  along 
lightly  and  safely  over  all  this  sea 
of  trouble."  So  musing,  the  man 
passed  through  the  gate,  stepped 
into  a  boat,  and  drove  with  double  oarsmen  across  the  lake 
to  Menagio. 

He  met  a  party  of  young  Americans  under  the  trees,  be 
fore  the  half  primitive  house  known  as  the  Victoria  Hotel. 
He  told  them  at  once  the  story  of  this  unfortunate  lady ;  and, 
all  the  time  leaving  his  own  name  out,  asked  them  what 
should  be  done. 

"  Wall,"  answered  the  Yankee  spokesman,  "  send  for  her 
husband  ;  let  her  send  for  her  husband.  Or  else  go  down  to 
Rome  with  the  courier.  If  she  has  been  with  him  through  al1 


508  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

the  Alps,  she  can  certainly  go  the  two  days'  ride  to  Rome  with 
him,  and  not  hurt  herself.  As  for  her  father,  I  reckon  the 
old  man  is  of  age,  and  can  take  care  of  himself." 

"  Yes,"  said  another  sovereign  from  the  great  Republic, 
"  Let  her  go  down  to  Rome  where  her  home  is.  Let  her  go 
to  her  husband  if  he  won't  come  to  her.  If  the  mountain 
will  not  come  to  Mahomet,  let  Mahomet  go  to  the  moun 
tain.  They  say  she's  about  half  crazy  any  how,  and  a  fellow 
don't  like  to  get  mixed  up  with  a  crazy  woman ;  bad  enough 
when  they  are  in  their  senses." 

"  And  so  you  have  heard  something  about  this  poor  lady 
already  ?  '  inquired  Murietta. 

"  Heard  about  her  !  Wall  now,  I  guess  we  have  :  guess 
everybody  has.  It's  the  talk  all  over  the  lake.  You  see 
she's  got  a  fellow  with  her  that's  about  as  crazy  as  she  is,  and 
that  makes  the  thing  a  great  deal  worse.  If  she'd  pitch  him 
into  the  lake,  and  give  some  other  fellow  the  full  swing,  she 
might  get  on.  But  I  guess  she'd  better  go  back  to  her  hus 
band,  the  Italian  Count." 

Murietta  had  stepped  rapidly  down  into  his  boat,  as  the 
man  began  to  drawl  out  this  speech,  and  reveal  to  him  the 
current  stories  that  the  cunning  Italians  had  set  afloat  and 
made  the  gossip  of  the  lake ;  and,  lifting  his  hat,  did  not  wish 
to  hear  the  conclusion. 

His  boat  touched  at  Cadenabbia,  as  the  craft  with  the 
broad  canvas  and  canopies,  with  its  bands  of  music  and 
pleasure  party,  drew  in  to  the  shore.  He  had  resolved  to 
make  one  more  appeal  to  simple  manhood. 

As  the  gay  party  stepped  ashore,  he  was  delighted  to  see  a 
man  here  that  he  had  met  in  Rome.  It  was  McCreavy,  the 
Irish  porter  of  San  Francisco  and  the  millionaire,  who  had 
purchased  the  new  antiquities  in  Rome. 

The  Irishman  extended  his  hand  with  a  voluble  welcome 
to  Como,  and  a  pressing  invitation  to  the  artist  to  remain  and 
make  one  of  his  party  at  dinner. 


Love,  or  Duty?  509 

"  Yis,  yis,  ye  must  remain  wid  me  and  dine,  and  meet  the 
Prince  of  Lodi.  That  is  the  Prince  of  Lodi,  a  walking  wid 
me  wife  into  me  hotel." 

The  Irishman  pointed  with  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder, 
and  stooped  his  back  as  he  did  so,  as  if  he  was  bearing  a 
trunk  upstairs. 

And  then  he  went  on  to  talk  about  this  wonderful  Princo 
of  Lodi  in  the  most  garrulous  way ;  and  about  every  other 
word  was  sandwiched  in  between  "  the  Prince  of  Lodi." 

A  wonderful  boy  was  this  young  Prince  of  Lodi.  The 
Irishman  was  full  of  anecdotes  and  adventures  of  and  concern 
ing  this  Prince  of  Lodi.  Not  that  he  had  ever  been  in  war, 
or  even  in  the  saddle,  or  out  of  Italy,  or  even  long  out  of  the 
hands  of  his  nurse ;  but  still  a  wonderful  man  was  this  Prince 
of  Lodi. 

"  I  will  present  ye." 

"No,  do  not  disturb  him." 

"  But  he  will  not  mind,"  urged  the  Irishman,  who  perhaps 
for  the  first  time  had  found  himself  the  companion  of  a 
Prince,  and  was  quite  carried  away,  "he  will  not  mind  it  in 
the  least." 

"  Look  here  !  Mr.  McCreavy  ;  I  am  busy,"  said  Murietta 
earnestly.  "  I  have  a  matter  on  my  mind  and  hand,  and 
have  come  to  see  you  about  it,  and  at  once.  Hang  your 
Prince  !  What  harm  have  I  done  that  I  must  be  bored  by 
this  idiotic  and  stripling  prince  ?  What  good  has  he  done 
that  he  has  a  right  to  my  time  ?  Why,  he  is  a  helpless  toy. 
I  am  weary  with  toil  in  the  world.  I  am  covered  with  the 
scars  of  battle  ;  and  yet  you  would  make  this  man  my  com 
panion  and  my  equal,  and  condemn  me  to  tolerate  him. 
Now,  come  !  Here  is  a  matter  worthy  of  the  attention  and 
the  strong  arm  of  a  prince  of  nature.  Will  yoxi  assist  me  ?  " 

"  Wid  all  me  heart,  ban-in'  your  poor  opinion  o'  the 
Prince  of  Lodi.  " 

"  Spoken  like  a  brave,  warm-hearted  Irishman,"  cried  the 


510  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

artist,  reaching  his  hand.  "  Now,  sir,  here  is  a  work  that 
the  most  chivalrous  knight  ought  to  be  proud  to  strike  a 
blow  to  promote." 

"  And  ez  it  a  Californy  gold  mine,  or  an  oil  well  ?  "  asked 
the  shrewd  ex-porter. 

"  It  is  a  lady  in  trouble,"  replied  Murietta  gravely.  And 
then  he  proceeded  to  tell  the  whole  story  of  the  day  and  the 
day  before  to  the  Irishman,  as  they  sat  on  an  iron  seat  under 
the  shade  of  the  great  sycamore  trees  by  the  lake. 

"  Come  now,"  said  Murietta,  as  he  concluded,  "you  sail  the 
largest  craft  on  this  lake  that  carries  the  American  colors." 

"  Yis,  yis,  I  carries  the  flag  o'  me  country  ;  but  what  has 
that  to  do  wi'  the  Countess?  " 

"  Only  this.  She  is  an  American,  you  are  an  American. 
Since  these  Italians  are  so  clannish  against  strangers  in  the 
land,  let  Americans  be  a  little  clannish,  too,  and  stand  by 
each  other.  This  woman  will  have  her  child  taken  from  her 
to-morrow  morning.  That  child  will  not  be  taken  to  Rome, 
I  am  certain,  but  will  be  carried  off  to  some  hiding-place  by 
these  brigands  in  disguise,  and  kept  there  till  ransomed  by 
her  money.  Now,  sir,  what  I  ask  is  this.  Send  your  boat 
and  your  men  under  your  flag,  and  take  that  lady  and  her 
child  to  Como  to  night." 

The  Irishman  rose  up,  stooped,  picked  up  a  pebble,  pitched 
it  into  the  lake,  and  then  turned  to  the  artist  and  laughed  in 
his  face. 

"  Take  her  to  Como,"  pleaded  Murietta.  "  From  Como  to 
Milan — it  is  but  one  hour  ;  and  at  Milan  she  will  be  under 
the  protection  of  the  American  Consul ;  and  even  the  British 
vice-consul  will  not  see  her  separated  from  her  child.  Nay, 
there  is  not  one  Englishman  in  ten  outside  of  a  shop-keeper 
but  would  put  his  shoulder  to  the  wheel  and  see  her  through 
it  all,  if  he  saw  this  case  and  understood  it  as  I  see  and  un 
derstand  it." 

"  The  Prince  of  Lodi "      gan  the  Irishman. 


Love,  or  Duty?  511 

"  Will  you,  can  you  assist  the  Countess  to  get  to  Milan 
to-night  ?  " 

"The  Prince  of  Lodi " 

"  Hang  the  Prince  of  Lodi  !  "  cried  the  artist,  furious  at 
tlie  thought  of  having  to  entreat  this  vulgar  fellow  to  do  the 
the  simplest  service  for  a  lady  in  trouble,  "  will  you  do  this 
or  not  ?  " 

The  Irishman  shook  his  head,  stooped,  picked  up  another 
pebble,  tossed  it  into  the  Jake;  and  then  said  he  thought  it 
would  hardly  pay. 

"  No.  You  are  right,  it  will  not  pay,"  answered  Murietta, 
as  he  entered  his  boat  in  despair,  and  now  pushed  off  with 
the  prow  toward  the  Grand  Hotel  Bellagio.  "  I  forgot,"  he 
continued,  talking  to  himself,  "  it  really  will  not  pay  him. 
he  is  only  a  porter  still ;  I  mistook  him  for  a  gentleman." 

"  You  have  left  me  alone  all  day.  You  knew  how  lonely 
I  was  here,  and  yet  here  I  have  been  left  without  a  friend, 
left  with  that  terrible  little  monster  of  a  doctor,  who  would 
poison  us  all  for  a  penny."  The  Countess  was  bitter  in  her 
reproaches.  The  poor  spoilt  child  !  She  had  never  been  so 
alone  before.  She  did  not  even  have  her  keepers  about  her 
now. 

"  1  have  got  another  doctor,"  she  said,  leaning  over  the 
balcony  and  looking  down  at  a  fine  young  fellow  leading  the 
little  child  in  a  walk  slowly  up  and  down  the  avenue  of  trees 
by  the  lake.  "  Here,  take  this  roll  of  money  and  go  find  the 
other  doctor  and  pay  him  off." 

The  beautiful  woman  was  severe  and  imperious,  but 
Murietta  had  too  much  on  his  mind  to  heed  anything  she 
said  or  did.  He  had  resolved  now  to  see  her  through  this 
peril  at  every  hazard.  The  insinuations,  the  sneers,  and  the 
cold  caution  of  those  to  whom  he  had  appealed  had  maddened 
him.  He  was  now  desperate  with  this  resolution,  and  heeded 
nothing  but  that  which  either  facilitated  or  retarded  his  con 
templated  enterprise.  He  therefore  took  the  money  as  if  he 


512  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

had  been  a  courier  or  sort  of  upper  servant,  and  went  down, 
found  the  doctor,  paid  him  liberally,  and  came  back. 

The  lady  had  just  received  a  telegram  from  her  father.  He 
was  at  the  Royal  Hotel,  Milan. 

Poor  lady  !  She  walked  the  floor,  half  wild  again.  Yet 
she  did  not  dream  of  the  greater  trouble  that  now  encom 
passed  her,  and  Marietta  did  not  dare  tell  her.  He  feai-ed 
she  would  break  quite  down  under  it,  and  he  did  not  see  the 
good  that  would  come  of  reciting  the  unpleasant  truths. 

Giuseppe  did  not  put  in  an  appearance  at  the  Grand  Hotel 
that  day.  He  was  a  coward,  every  inch  of  him,  and  the 
recollection  of  the  little  encounter  in  the  ante-camera  of  the 
palace  in  Rome  no  doubt  had  something  to  do  with  keeping 
him  aloof  from  the  presence  of  Murietta. 

"  I  like  the  looks  of  that  new  doctor,"  said  Murietta  to  the 
Countess,  attempting  to  divert  her  thoughts. 

"  He  is  a  gentleman,"  she  answered,  as  she  came  up  and 
looked  down  and  threw  a  kiss  to  the  little  one  at  his  side  ; 
"  he  is  a  born  gentleman,  the  only  one  I  have  seen  in  all  this 
place.  I  should  have  died  but  for  him  to-day." 

The  artist  felt  the  bitter  taunt,  but  quietly  went  down  and 
joined  the  little  party  in  the  walk.  Then  the  Countess  came 
down ;  and,  as  they  stood  there  by  the  lake,  the  boat  from  up 
at  Colico  with  the  travellers  from  the  Alps  and  the  Tyrol 
came  and  discharged  her  load  of  tourists  for  Bellagio,  and 
took  in  her  load  for  France,  England,  and  America. 

"  Oh,  why  can  I  not  go  too  ?  "  cried  the  Countess,  as  she 
saw  the  boat  push  off.  "  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  to  get 
ready  to  go  ?  I  could  get  into  the  boat,  go  to  Como,  drive 
to  the  station,  take  a  ticket,  and  be  in  Milan  with  my  father 
before  morning.  I  can  do  it.  I  will  go  on  the  very  next " 

The  old  Admiral  was  walking  up  and  down  through  the 
cypress  avenue  on  the  hill  side  above  them ;  and,  as  the  lady 
saw  him,  she  stopped  suddenly  and  bowed  her  head,  and  hid 
her  face  in  her  hands,  and  trembling  sank  into  a  seat. 


Love,  or  Duty?  513 

The  young  doctor  was  greatly  affected.  He  saw  that 
something  was  certainly  wrong  here ;  and  he,  though  a 
Frenchman  just  from  school,  made  a  pretty  shrewd  guess 
at  the  cause  of  the  trouble. 

"  I  must  get  away  from  here,  and  soon,  or  I  shall  go  mad," 
said  the  Countess,  lifting  up  her  face  and  looking  through  the 
cypress  avenue  for  the  cause  of  her  terror. 

"  Lady,  I  am  arranging  to  go  to-night,"  said  the  artist. 

"  To-night!  Can  we  go  to-night  ?  Oh,  let  us  go  to-night, 
now !  Come,  let  us  go  !  " 

"  Soft,  soft ;  mind  what  you  say.  These  very  trees  have 
ears.  The  old  Admiral  is  on  the  watch.  He  has  sworn  that 
you  shall  not  go  without  taking  him." 

The  lady  looked  at  him  with  her  great  eyes  wide  open,  and 
helpless  as  any  babe.  He  had  seen  fit  to  tell  her  this  much 
in  order  to  put  her  on  her  guard,  and  make  her  the  more 
cautious  in  getting  away.  But  he  dared  not  tell  her  the 
cruel  judgment  of  the  syndicate. 

The  sun  went  down,  and  the  party  retired  to  prepare  for 
dinner.  The  young  doctor  kept  the  child  constantly  by  his 
side,  for  he  had  been  engaged  by  the  Countess  to  remain  with 
her,  unless  called  away  by  a  case  of  most  urgent  necessity. 
As  he  was  a  young  man  and  a  stranger,  it  was  not  likely  that 
that  event  would  happen  for  a  long  time. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  at  night.  Fire-rockets  and  Roman 
candles  were  going  off  in  every  direction.  It  was  like  a 
great  battle-field.  These  vulgar  hotel-keepers,  forgetting 
that  people  came  there  for  peace  and  rest,  took  this  means  of 
advertising  their  respective  houses. 

"  I  wish  to  take  the  Countess  and  her  child  out  of  this 
noise  for  an  hour,"  said  Murietta  to  the  proprietor.  "  Is 
there  not  a  place  around  the  forks  of  the  lake  on  the  other 
side  of  the  little  pine-topped  mountain  where  there  are  no 
hotels  with  rockets  and  fireworks  ?  " 

The  man  answered  that  thei^e  was;  and  also  told  the  artist, 
22* 


514  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

that  on  the  other  side  of  the  little  mountain  there  was  a 
famous  echo  that  the  Countess  would  certainly  be  pleased  to 
hear. 

"  Give  me  a  boat  with  four  oarsmen,  and  the  best  young 
men  to  be  found ;  for  the  Countess  has  been  sorely  tried,  and 
must  have  some  diversion." 

The  man  promised  the  boat  should  soon  be  ready,  and  also 
that  he  should  have  the  best  men  in  Bellagio  to  pull  him  and 
his  party  around  the  mountain  ;  and  the  artist  withdrew  to 
his  room. 

He  rolled  up  a  picture  that  was  there,  with  his  face 
averted.  He  did  not  look  at  it.  He  did  not  dare  to.  He 
rolled  it  up  tight,  tied  it,  and  then  taking  up  his  brush  wrote 
"  It  is  finished." 

Then  he  went  down  and  stood  by  the  side  of  the  Countess, 
on  the  balcony.  The  doctor  and  his  little  charge  were  watch 
ing  the  lights  with  great  pleasure  and  interest  from  another 
balcony  within  call.  The  artist  left  the  Countess  a  moment, 
stepped  to  the  doctor,  whispered  in  his  ear,  after  making 
sure  that  no  spies  were  at  that  moment  watching  them,  and 
then  went  back  to  the  Countess. 

"  It  is  all  right.  He  will  be  with  us  as  far  as  Como.  He 
does  not  know  all  the  trouble  that  surrounds  us ;  you  do  not 
know,  perhaps  I  do  not  know ;  and,  after  all,  it  is  not  best  to 
know.  But  we  are  off  in  half  an  hour,  and  you  must  not  say 
one  word  till  safe  away  on  the  water." 

"  Safe  away  !  O  God  J  And  you  will  see  me  through  it 
all  ?  " 

"I  will  see  you  through  it  all,  God  helping  me,"  the  man 
said  with  a  trembling  voice ;  for  his  face  was  lifted  to  the  hill 
and  the  house  in  the  pines,  where  his  heart  should  be  left  for 
ever  behind  him. 

"  Murietta,"  said  the  lady,  "  I  know  what  it  costs  you  to 
go  away  with  me  to  Milan." 

"  Do  you   know  ? "   he  asked,    looking  in   her  beautiful 


Love,  or  Duty?  515 

childish  and  helpless  face.  "  Do  you  know  what  it  costs 
me?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  know  what  it  costs  you  to  leave  here  and  go 
with  me  down  to  hot  and  dusty  Milan.  I  know  you  want  to 
stay  in  Como  for  a  month  still,  and  to  rest  here  and  be  quiet. 
Instead  of  that,  you  must  go  down  just  in  the  flush  of  the 
season  to  dull,  dusty  Milan,  and  all  only  to  oblige  me.  You 
see  I  know  what  it  costs  you.  I  appreciate  what  you  are 
about  to  do,  and  Heaven  will  reward  you,  for  I  cannot." 

"  O  woman  !  woman  !  woman !  "  sighed  Murietta,  as  he 
once  more  and  for  the  last  time,  lifted  his  face  to  the  house, 
hidden  away  among  the  pines  and  ruins  on  the  woody  little 
mountain. 

He  had  come  to  the  forks  of  his  road  of  life,  and  he  must 
now  choose  the  right  or  the  left  hand.  On  the  one  hand  lay 
love,  the  other  duty. 


CHAPTER  LXIII. 


A  BOAT  RACE  ON  LAKE  COMO. 


LL  ready,  signor." 

"  Very  good.  Say  that  we 
will  be  there  presently,"  said 
Murietta  to  the  man.  And  the 
man  bowed  low  and  withdrew. 

"  No,  no  ;    leave  that,"  whis 
pered  the  artist  to  the  Countess, 
as  they  were  passing  out  together, 
and  she  caught  up  a  shawl  which 
she    began    to  throw    over   her 
"  Leave  every  thing   just  as  it  is  in 
Touch  nothing.      Take  nothing  with 
you.     Tt  is  too  sultry  at  this  hour  for  shawls  and 
wraps  ;    and,  however  much  you  may  need  them 
to-night,    they    must  be   left  behind.      This  is   a 
desperate  game,  and  it   must  be  played  reckless 
of  cost." 

"O  that  she  was  in  Milan,  beyond  the.  jurisdiction  of 
that  cursed  syndicate.  She  does  not  e/en  dream  that  the^ 
will  tear  her  child  from  her  arms'  to-morrow.  And,  by 
heaven,  if  I  live,  they  shall  not  !  "  Murietta  muttered  this 
half  savagely  to  himself  as  he  stooped,  took  the  little  boy  in 
his  arms,  and  stepped  hurriedly  down  to  the  quay. 

The  party  entered  the  boat  and  pushed  off,  and  drove  hard 
for  half  an  hoiir  up  the  lake  and  around  the  little  high  pine- 
topped  mountain  with  its  nose  pushed  into  the  forks.  They 


A  Boat- Race  on  Lake  Como.          517 

were  going  just  in  the  opposite  direction  from  the  point  they 
so  desired  to  reach,  for  Marietta  knew  that  the  eyes  of  the 
old  Admiral  were  on  them. 

"  What  a  beautiful  night  for  a  ride  to  Como,"  exclaimed 
the  Countess,  as  if  in  a  spirit  of  banter. 

"Beautiful!"  answered  Murietta  ;  "but  you  would  get 
very  weary  of  it  before  you  rode  that  distance." 

"  Would  I  !     Not  half  so  weary  as  you,  my  dear  artist." 

"  Try  it  and  see." 

"  Try  it  and  see  !     Do  you  dare  me  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  think  I  can  endure  almost  as  much  boat-riding 
on  Lake  Como  as  the  fair  Countess — that  is  all." 

"  Captain,  how  much  to  Como  and  back,  and  without 
touching  land  all  the  way  down,  or  stopping  to  rest,  or  doing 
anything  by  which  my  friend  the  artist  can  find  other  diver 
sion  than  sitting  in  the  boat  ?  " 

It  was  indeed  a  dangerous  enterprise.  Two  people  of  this 
party  were  attempting  to  deceive  Italians. 

The  Captain  of  the  boat  spoke  to  his  fellows  in  the  patois 
of  the  country  ;  and  then  he  answered  politely,  "  Fifty  francs, 
Senora  Countess,  at  night  with  four  oars." 

"  But  you  would  get  out  as  we  neared  the  hotel,  would  you 
not  ?  "  she  said,  turning  to  Murietta,  with  a  well-assumed  air 
of  banter. 

"  Try  me,  and  see.  I  think  I  can  sit  here  certainly  as  long 
as  your  ladyship." 

"  Oh  !  I  will  npt  give  you  a  chance  to  leave  us.  You  shall 
not  even  be  in  hail  of  Bellagio  again  till  we  return  from 
Como." 

"  Captain  !  Como  !  "  cried  the  beautiful  woman,  half  rising 
with  excitement,  and  acting  her  part  with  a  skill  that  amazed 
Murietta. 

"  It  will  be  fifty  francs,  Senora  Countess,  and  the  sum  that 
we  were  to  have  for  the  excursion  besides." 

"  You  shall  have  it ;  and  bono  mana  also." 


518  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

The  Italian  boatman  bowed  and  smiled  in  acknowledg 
ment,  and  the  little  craft  spun  around,  and  the  prow  was 
pointed  down  the  water  toward  the  plains  of  Loinbardy. 

It  was  a  moment  of  intense  anxiety  as  they  came  opposite 
Bellagio  on  their  way  over  the  still,  warm  water.  What  if 
the  wily  Italians  suspected  something,  and  should  make  some 
excuse  to  pull  in — to  get  their  coats,  a  little  wine,  anything  ? 

No  !  the  boat  did  not  veer  from  its  course.  Not  an  oar 
lost  a  note.  The  tall,  handsome,  half-Greek  fellows  kept 
time,  and  they  shot  ahead  with  a  speed  that  was  surprising. 

The  artist  sat  silent,  and  with  folded  arms.  He  had  not 
slept  for  the  past  two  nights ;  but  even  now  his  brain  was  at 
work,  and  he  was  wide  awake  and  watchful :  he  had  done 
what  he  knew  to  be  his  duty.  Yet,  sitting  there,  he  knew 
that  on  the  morrow  men  and  women  would  couple  his  name 
with  that  of  the  Countess  in  a  way  that  would  cover  his  head 
with  shame.  He  had  sacrificed  all,  everything.  He  had 
sacrificed  more  to  serve  this  woman  by  his  side,  to  help  her 
through  a  trouble,  than  most  men  ever  possess.  He  had 
counted  down  his  good  name,  broken  his  idol,  left  his  heart 
with  all  his  broken  hopes  on  the  pine  and  vine-clad  hill  at 
Bellagio. 

Yet  for  all  this  that  he  had  done,  he — sitting  there  with 
folded  hands — knew  perfectly  well  there  could,  among  men, 
be  but  one  reward — the  reward  of  a  ruined  name.  He  was 
not  regretting  anything  now :  he  was  simply  sitting  there 
looking  back  at  the  ugly  fact,  and  sometimes  asking  himself 
if  he  could  not  have  done  otherwise ;  and  all  the  time  answer 
ing  that  he  could  not  have  done  otherwise,  and  had  his  own 
respect. 

This,  then,  was  the  outlook :  he  had  lost  the  world's  good 
opinion,  but  had  retained  his  own.  After  all,  if  he  had  been 
compelled,  at  any  time  of  his  stormy  and  troubled  life  from  the 
date  of  his  discretion,  to  choose  which  should  be  sacrificed 
and  which  retained,  the  world's  good  will  or  his  own,  he  never 


A  Boat- Race  on  Lake  Como.          519 

would  have  hesitated  or  had  two  opinions  for  a  moment. 
He  had  been  driven  to.  the  wall-  here,  and  had  been  compelled 
to  choose :  he  had  made  his  choice  and  did  not  regret  it. 
Yet  it  was  so  hard,  so  very  hard,  to  leave  her,  and  disgraced. 
He  was  thinking  that  if  he  had  died  then  it  had  been  so  very 
much  better.  She  then  would  perhaps  have  thought  of  him 
at  least  with  respect  :  now,  she  would  never  think  of  him  but 
with  shame. 

"  And  this  is  the  woman — the  One  Fair  Woman — of  my 
life  !  the  light  that  I  have  followed,  the  lady  I  saw  on  the 
mountain  of  fire,  and  in  whose  path  I  strewed  roses.  This 
boat  is  bearing  me  from  her  presence,  and  in  eternal  dis 
grace." 

It  was  a  sultry  evening.  Away  down  the  long  narrow  lake 
there  was  a  great  waterfall  plunging  down  from  the  high 
savage  mountain  into  a  little  bay  at  the  left  of  the  weary 
oarsmen. 

They  asked  permission  to  rest  a  moment  in  the  cooling 
spray  ;  and  the  kind  Countess,  who  was  now  light-hearted 
and  full  of  hope,  cheerfully  allowed  the  boat  to  lie  still  for  a 
few  moments  and  rock  and  rest  at  will. 

The  bold,  strong  fellows  soon  pushed  on  again,  for  a  wind 
was  springing  up  ahead,  and  the  fair  face  of  the  lake  began 
to  grow  wrinkled,  as  if  gathering  up  a  storm. 

The  air  was  chill  now  as  the  wind  blew  in,  and  the  doctor 
took  off  his  cloak  and  folded  it  around  the  Countess  and  her 
child. 

Murietta  sat  there  silent  and  still.  His  pliable  and  easy 
nature  had  at  last  been  intensified ;  and  now  he  was  as  a  man 
of  iron. 

There  was  a  sound  of  oars.  A  man  leaned  over  the  boat 
and  listened.  The  artist  drew  a  pistol,  cocked  it',  and  said, 
"  Pull  !  pull  for  your  lives  !  Double  pay  if  yo\i  reach  Como 
before  them  !  "  And  then  he  lifted  his  shining  steel  in  the 
moon,  "  Death  if  you  do  not  !  " 


520  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  Is  it — oh,  is  it  the  Admiral  ?  "  asked  the  Countess. 

The  doctor  looked  terrified,  and  tapped  the  plank  in  the 
boat  with  his  boot,  and  sat  very  restless  in  his  seat. 

Singularly  enough,  the  captain  and  his  men  only  smiled 
with  pleasure  at  the  lifted  pistol  and  the  promised  double 
pay.  These  fellows  had  seen  run-away  affairs  before.  They 
now  leaned  to  their  oars  and  entered  into  it  with  heart 
and  soul.  They  thought  this  was  a  love  affair,  and  laughed 
to  see  how  cleverly  it  had  been  managed ;  for  Como  has  long 
been  famous  for  its  many  adventures  in  this  field.  These 
fellows  supposed  that  the  artist  was  stealing  the  Countess,  and 
they  liked  his  dash  and  daring,  and  particularly  liked  the  pro 
mise  of  double  pay. 

Notwithstanding  the  promise  of  the  proprietor  of  the  Grand 
Hotel  that  the  boat  and  the  men  should  be  the  best  on  the 
lake,  this  was  now  doubtful,  for  the  pursuers  were  gaining  at 
every  stroke.  They  were  now  almost  within  a  pistol  shot. 

The  doctor  crouched  down,  so  as  not  to  catch  the  wind  ; 
and  the  Countess,  with  her  child  in  her  arms,  lay  almost  flat 
on  the  seat,  while  Murietta  turned  his  face  to  the  boat  that 
followed,  took  another  pistol  from  his  side,  and  calmly  waited 
results. 

"  Yoii  will  take  notice,  Captain,  and  all  of  you,  that  the 
doctor  here  and  the  Countess  have  no  hand  in  this  matter. 
It  is  all  my  own  affair.  If  any  of  these  men  are  killed  who 
come  after  me,  remember  it  is  I,  and  I  alone,  who  did  it," 
said  the  artist,  with  an  iron  expression  in  his  voice,  as  he 
lifted  a  pistol  towards  the  pursuers. 

It  was  now  breaking  day,  and  the  boats  began  to  leave  the 
little  towns  along  the  edge  of  the  water,  and  put  out  on  the 
lake,  for  business  or  pleasure,  and  cross  to  other  towns. 

They  were  now  nearing  the  city  of  Como.  The  boat  that 
followed  hailed,  but  had  no  answer.  Murietta  sat  silent  as 
a  man  of  stone,  waiting  his  opportunity  to  send  the  Admiral 
into  eternity.  He  had  endured  quite  enough.  He  was  now 


A  Boat- Race  on  Lake  Como.          521 

desperate.  His  heart  was  really  set  on  the  death  of  this  man. 
His  mind  was  full  of  murder. 

It  is  a  sad  but  a  true  confession,  that  this  man — the  artist 
• — sitting  there,  with  his  menacing  pistol,  was  really  wishing 
that  the  boat  was  only  a  little  closer,  so  that  he  could  send 
the  bullet  to  his  heart  with  perfect  precision.  He  had 
determined  to  kill  him,  and  to  kill  him  with  his  own  hand. 
Having  once  made  up  his  mind  to  this,  he  was  impatient  for 
the  moment  to  come. 

It  was  unfortunate  that  the  doctor  was  in  the  boat.  Every 
pound  of  weight  was  now  telling  against  our  party.  The 
men  were  bold,  strong  fellows,  and,  no  doubt,  faithful  enough, 
but  they  had  been  on  the  water  at  least  an  hour  before  the 
pursuers  had  taken  their  oars,  Besides,  when  the  Admiral 
determined  to  make  chase,  he  had  the  pick  of  the  best  and 
swiftest  boat  in  Bellagio.  Then,  besides  all  that,  there  was  an 
officer  in  the  boat  that  followed,  armed  with  the  authority  of 
the  magistrate  to  take  the  child.  The  presence  of  this  officer 
strengthened  the  arms  of  one  party,  but  weakened  the  arms 
of  the  other. 

The  Italians  were  pulling  indeed  for  life.  They  had  seen 
how  settled  and  determined  was  the  artist,  and  they  knew 
that  blood  must  flow  if  they  were  overtaken.  For  very  good 
reasons  they  wished  to  avoid  anything  serious,  and  were  there 
fore  making  the  best  possible  use  of  their  strength. 

The  pursuers  were  dangerously  close.  They  could  almost 
pierce  the  boat  of  the  Countess  with  a  pike.  The  artist  had 
been  too  anxious  to  kill  this  old  Admiral ;  his  mind  had  been 
too  determinedly  set  on  murder  to  exhibit  his  pistol  as  he 
drew  near.  He  even  held  it  low  down  in  the  edge  of  the 
boat,  as  a  sportsman  holds  his  gun  out  of  sight,  when  coy 
game  is  coming  near.  He  was  only  waiting  for  a  dead  cen 
tre  shot  to  the  heart. 

There  was  a  boat  putting  sharp  across  the  lake  in  front  and 
at  right  angles.  It  was  driving  straight  across  their  course. 


522  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

It  whistled,  but  our  boatman  did  not  heed.  Closer  and 
closer  they  drew  together.  The  steamer  and  the  little  boat 
were  closing  in,  bow  to  bow. 

Once,  twice,  thrice,  the  steamer  whistled,  but  the  Italians 
were  desperate.  To  stop  then,  would  be  to  give  themselves 
over  to  the  pursuers. 

"  Stop,  in  the  name  of  the  law !  "  cried  the  officer  in  the 
pursuer's  boat,  as  he  held  up  a  paper. 

Marietta  lifted  a  pistol  in  each  hand,  and  half  arose.  "  I 
will  shoot  the  first  man  who  dares  slacken  a  muscle  ! " 

"  But  the  boat !  the  boat !  the  steamer  !  "  cried  the  terri 
fied  oarsmen. 

"  On  !  and  under  her  !     On,  I  say  !  " 

The  men  sprang  to  the  work  as  if  they  had  been  springs  of 
steel. 

Right  under  the  prow  they  shot,  with  barely  room  for  their 
oars ;  and,  as  they  came  out  and  darted  on  from  the  other  side, 
and  shot  for  the  shore,  there  was  a  shout  of  admiration  from 
the  steamer's  deck,  and  a  waving  of  handkerchiefs  from  fair 
hands,  that  showed  how  the  reckless  deed  had  been  appre 
ciated,  even  by  those  who  had  been  about  to  run  them  down. 

As  they  touched  the  shore  and  climbed  into  a  carriage, 
they  looked  back,  but  the  boat  of  the  pursuers  was  not  to  bo 
distinguished.  Other  craft  were  crossing  the  lake,  and  per 
haps  it  was  confounded  with  them. 

Then,  as  they  drove  further  away,  and  \ip  the  plain  toward 
Milan,  they  saw  that  the  steamer  had  turned  about  on  the 
lake  and  was  lying  there  quite  still.  It  was  not  yet  fairly 
dawn,  and  they  dashed  away  toward  Milan,  in  doubt  of  what 
had  become  of  the  Admiral  or  his  men.  The  Countess  won 
dered  why  the  vessel  had  stopped  in  the  middde  of  the  lake 
and  was  resting  there.  Perhaps  she  was  picking  up  the  pur 
suers,  who  had  fallen  under  her  wheels. 


CHAPTER   LXIY. 


IN   MILAN. 


T  is  one  hour  or  more  from 
Como  to  Milan  by  rail  ;  but  yon 
can  drive  it  in  three  hours. 
It  is  a  lonesome  ride  through  a 
bare  and  not  over  fertile  land, 
considering  that  it  is  the  plain 
of  Lombardy. 

You    pass  through    a    dozen 
">r      two      poor      tumble-down 
towns,  all  with  one  long  street 
and  all  paved  with  cobble-stones,  over  which 
your  carriage  bumps  and  thumps  in  the  most 
agonizing  manner  you  can  imagine. 

The  wondering  doctor  had   been  left  with 
the   dismissed  boatmen,  who  were  mad  with 
delight  at  their  accidental  feat  and  their  trebled 
pay  ;  and  the  Countess  held  her  child  in  her 
lap  and  sat  looking  with  her  great  brown  eyes  at  Murietta, 
who  scarcely  spoke  the  whole  weary  way  to  the  gates  of  the 
city  of  the  plain. 

There  lies  Milan.  A  wall  of  five  miles'  girdle,  and  wide 
enough  for  a  small  army  to  march  abreast  upon.  This  wall 
is  the  great  drive  of  the  great  city.  It  is  called  the  Bastion, 
and  is  planted  with  double  rows  of  broad  trees.  This  was 
built  by  the  Spaniard. 


524  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

In  the  centre  of  this  city  stands  a  little  mountain  of  marble 
in  a  low  and  uncomely  site.  This  mountain  of  marble  is 
topped  by  a  forest  of  barren  and  boughless  pines,  and  all 
are  as  white  as  if  wrapped  in  perpetual  rime  and  snow. 

If  you  wish  to  see  and  enjoy  the  great  cathedral  of  Milan, 
keep  away  from  it.  At  all  events  never  enter  it.  It  is  a 
lonesome  place  inside.  It  is  so  large  you  may  get  lost.  And 
then  the  famous  silver  bishops  and  popes  are  not  solid  silver 
at  all.  Tap  them  with  your  finger,  and  you  will  find  them 
hollow  and  as  thin  as  tin. 

Down  stairs,  for  five  francs,  they  will  show  you  the  black 
and  ugly  bones  of  a  good  man,  who  deserves  a  better  fate 
than  this  foul  exhibition  of  his  decaying  corpse.  And  that 
is  about  all  there  is  to  be  seen  inside,  save  the  cunning 
frescos  away  up  in  the  arches  overhead,  and  some  stained 
windows.  There  is  nothing  here  to  compensate  you  for  the 
disappointment  you  feel  on  entering,  after  you  have  contem 
plated  the  beauty  and  airy  proportions  from  without. 

Climb  to  the  top  of  this  awful  edifice,  and  you  will  find 
that  the  figure  of  a  mountain  with  a  forest  is  not  altogether 
inappropriate.  You  will  find  a  garden  of  flowers  there,  all 
of  marble.  In  fact,  every  plant  of  Italy,  even  to  the  most 
common  vegetable  of  the  garden,  is  fashioned  out  and  set  up 
there  for  you  to  walk  through  and  admire. 

There  is  something  more  here  on  these  little  spires,  and  in 
this  marble  garden  of  plants  and  flowers,  than  all  that.  On 
one  of  these  spires  is  a  hen  on  her  nest.  It  is  made  very 
beautiful,  singular  as  it  may  seem,  and  is  much  admired. 

Away  yonder  in  an  obscure  corner,  looking  down  into  the 
crowded  street,  stands  a  statue  of  Adam.  He  is  leaning  on 
his  mattock,  and  seems  weary  of  life.  His  face  is  a  blended 
face  of  Christ  and  Cain.  It  is  the  best  of  all  the  thousands 
of  statues  here. 

Our  little  party  of  three  reached  the  Hotel  Royal,  in  the 
heart  of  Milan,  at  last,  worn  and  exhausted. 


In  Milan.  525 

The  Countess  had  been  so  overcome  by  the  agony  and 
intense  excitement  of  the  past  few  days,  that  she  had  to  be 
borne  from  the  carriage  to  her  rooms. 

There  lay  Milan  in  the  middle  of  the  great  plain,  teeming 
in  yellow  corn,  covered  with  fruit  and  flowers  and  vines,  and 
literally  steaming  in  the  intense  heat.  It  was  intolerable. 
The  old  father  of  the  Countess  had  pushed  on  the  next  day 
for  England,  leaving  kind  messages  and  most  urgent  letters 
for  her  to  follow  at  once,  for  he  was  dying. 

It  was  impossible  for  our  party  to  move  that  evening, 
eager  as  they  were  to  leave  the  burning  town — Italy,  every 
thing — while  all  seemed  clear  and  open  for  the  flight.  The 
Cou7itess  was  prostrated,  and  must  remain  till  to-morrow. 

They  rested.  Yet  long  before  the  Countess  had  opened 
her  eyes,  the  artist  was,  next  morning,  down  in  the  court  of 
the  old  palace,  which  was  now  converted  into  a  hotel,  quietly 
arranging  for  the  departure.  He  somehow  felt  certain  that 
the  end  was  not  yet.  Where  was  the  Count  ?  "What  had  be 
come  of  the  Doctor  with  the  retreating  moustache  and  the  low 
brow  ?  And  had  the  Admiral  and  his  crew  of  followers  really 
perished  ?  Certainly  not,  else  the  event  had  been  chronicled 
in  the  journals  of  Milan.  The  artist  looked  them  eagerly 
through.  He  found  no  tidings  there  ;  nothing  to  tell  him 
the  fate  of  those  who  had  followed  that  fearful  night  of  the 
flight  from  Como. 

Then  if  the  old  Admiral  was  not  dead  he  was  alive.  If 
alive,  he  would  be  upon  the  track  of  the  Countess,  and  that 
soon,  again.  That  big  chin  of  his  would  brook  no  delay,  or 
hesitate  at  nothing.  It  had  the  iron  energy  of  an  engine, 
and  the  man  was  now  moved  with  a  sort  of  desperation  and 
hate,  that  must  find  vent  either  in  the  capture  of  the  Count 
ess  or  the  death  of  Marietta. 

The  sun  was  just  rising  in  sultry  Milan.  It  was  but  a  few 
minutes'  walk  to  the  great  cathedral,  where  there  was  room 
and  plaqe  to  breathe  in  the  great  open  space  surrounding  it. 


526  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

The  artist  stood  on  the  steps  in  the  fresh  morning  shade 
cast  by  the  gveat  marble  edifice,  and  had  not  yet  entered  the 
cathedral.  The  people  were  as  thick  in  Milan,  even  at  this 
early  hour,  as  in  a  Roman  Carnival.  You  could  hardly  move 
along.  Standing  there  on  the  marble  steps,  Murietta  could 
scarcely  see  the  ground  for  the  moving  masses  of  people. 
Italy  is  so  very  populous. 

There  was  a  heavy  hand  laid  on  his  shoulder.  The  artist 
started,  for  he  was  still  nervous  from  the  excitement  of  the 
past  few  days,  and  backed  against  the  wall. 

"  Shake  hands.  Come  !  let  us  be  friends.  I  carry  my 
heart  in  my  hand.  I  am  a  rough  but  honest  man,  and  you 
will  yet  live  to  see  it.  Take  it !  Take  my  hand,  it  is  the 
olive  branch  of  peace.  I  offer  it  to  you  now  for  the  last  time. 
Will  you  not  take  my  hand  ?  " 

Murietta  had  backed  close  against  the  wall,  and  the  old 
Admiral  stood  there  reaching  out  his  hand  and  offering  him 
his  friendship.  The  artist  only  shook  his  head,  and  looked 
the  old  monster  in  the  face. 

"  Very  well,  very  well.  But  you  shall  remember  this.  I 
will  bring  this  back  to  your  mind  some  day,  and  in  a  way  and 
in  a  place  that  you  will  little  suspect." 

Then  the  old  Admiral,  black  with  passion,  pulled  at  his 
long  grey  moustache,  and  twirled  it  about  his  stained  finger. 

At  last  he  began  again,  standing  all  the  time  boldly  before 
Murietta,  as  if  to  prevent  his  escape,  and  pulling  mercilessly 
at  his  long  grey  moustache  with  his  stained  fingers.  "If  I 
prove  to  you  that  I  really  want  to  leave  Italy,  and  that  it  is 
necessary  for  me  to  leave  Italy,  and  to  leave  in  the  company 
of  the  Countess;  and  if  I  take  the  place  of  courier,  or  even  of 
a  common  servant,  will  you  not  advise  her  to  take  me  ?  Think, 
think,  before  you  answer.  She  must  get  on,  if  she  ever  sees 
her  father  alive  again.  You  see  what  I  have  done,  and  you 
know  what  I  can  do.  It  was  only  an  accident  that  pulled 
you  through  at  Como.  Now,  sir,  if  you  wish  to  serve  this 


In  Milan.  527 

lady,  if  you  really  are  the  bold,  chivalrous,  and  disinterested 
friend  that  you  profess  to  be,  take  me  with  you.  I  will  go 
as  a  common  servant.  Nay,  more,  I  will  pay  you  to  let  me 
go  with  you  ;  to  go  in  disguise.  Come  !  I  can  prove  to  you 
that  I  am,  at  least,  honest  in  this  matter.  I  must  leave 
Italy.  I  knew  you  woiild  come  to  the  cathedral.  I  have 
stood  here  all  night  waiting  for  you.  I  offer  you  my  hand 
once  more.  Is  it  war  or  is  it  peace  ?  " 

Murietta  was  not  the  least  part  of  a  patient  man.  He  had 
stood  there  pushed  back  against  the  wall  with  this  old  villain's 
vile  breath  in  his  face  as  long  as  he  could  bear  it.  He  sprang 
forward,  pushed  him  aside,  and  returned  to  the  hotel. 

All  over  the  city  wei'e  posted  great  red  posters,  headed 
with  this  tempting  announcement :  "  Fifty  thousand  francs 
reward."  People  were  reading  these  posters  eagerly.  They 
had  just  been  put  lip.  They  were  still  wet  and  warped  from 
the  fresh  paste.  The  artist  stopped  and  read  one  of  them  at  the 
portal  of  the  hotel  as  he  returned.  It  was  a  reward  offered 
for  the  arrest  and  conviction  of  forgers  of  Italian  currency. 

"  Ah,"  cried  the  English  clerk  of  the  hotel,  who  had  seen 
the  artist  reading  this  bill,  "  they  should  have  made  the  re 
ward  at  least  half  a  million.  Italy  is  full  of  it.  Look  here  ! 
The  prettiest  forged  paper  you  ever  saw.  It  is  really  better 
then  the  original,  finer  than  the  genuine.  That  is  the  way 
we  detect  it." 

"  There  is  a  gentleman  waiting  to  see  you,  sir,  and  he  says 
his  business  is  urgent,"  said  a  boy  with  a  silver  plate  in  his 
hand  to  the  artist  as  he  passed  on  up  to  his  rooms. 

It  was  the  black  and  low-browed  doctor.  He  was  dressed 
up  now,  and  looking  very  smart.  His  fee  for  healing  had 
healed  his  threadbare  dress,  and  but  for  his  villainous  face  he 
might  now  have  been  quite  presentable. 

He  stood  bowing  before  the  artist,  twirling  his  hat  in  his 
hand,  and  looking  nervously  around  him  as  if  he  half  suspected 
he  was  watched. 


528  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

"  You  wish  to  get  rid  of  the  Admiral,"  began  the  visitor, 
twirling  his  hat  faster  than  ever. 

"  And  you  propose  to  poison  him  for  me,  you  dog ;  is  that 
what  you  are  here  for  this  morning  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  no.  Really,  signor,  you  do  me  a  great  wrong. 
Nothing  of  the  kind.  I  told  you  I  should  leave  the  service 
of  the  Admiral,  and  enter  the  service  of  my  country." 

"  Well,  go  on,  get  done  with  what  you  have  to  say,  and 
then  get  out  of  my  sight,  and  soon." 

"  Well,  signor.  If  I  should  have  the  Admiral  locked  up 
in  the  prison  of  Milan,  so  that  he  will  never  again  be  free,  how 
much  money  will  you  pay  me  ?  " 

"  Not  a  sou.     It  that  all  you  have  to  say  ?  " 

"No,  signor,  not  quite  all."  The  hat  twirled  in  the 
nervous  hands  faster  than  ever. 

"  Well,  you  had  better  go.  If  you  must  betray  your 
friends,  you  must  take  them  to  some  other  market.  I  am  a 
poor  man.  Besides  that,  I  would  not  bribe  you ;  nor  could 
I  trust  you  if  I  should." 

"  But  will  signor  listen  one  moment  more  ?  You  have 
seen  the  immense  reward  that  is  offered.  Good  !  You  have 
noticed  the  stained  finger  ends  of  the  Admiral.  Good ! 
Signor,  listen  to  me.  All  the  plates  for  printing  Italian 
money  were  made  in  America,  with  a  few  exceptions.  Why  ? 
because  this  new  Italy  could  not  trust  her  own  men.  She 
was  afraid  if  these  plates  were  made  at  home  that  there  would 
be  duplicates  made  also.  Very  good.  These  plates  were 
made  abroad,  and  duplicates  are  now  made,  notwithstanding 
the  precaution  of  the  new  Italy." 

"Well,  this  is  very  tiresome;  and  what  has  it  all  to  do 
with  locking  up  the  Admiral  ? "  asked  the  artist  im 
patiently. 

"  Ah,  that  now  is  the  point,  that  is  the  pith  of  it.  The 
Admiral  is  a  miser.  He  is  worth  a  million.  He  has  loads 
of  money,  and  he  has  starved  me  for  years.  I  want  my 


In  Milan.  529 

revenge.  He  pretends  to  despise  me.  I  will  show  him  !  I 
will  show  him  !  " 

"  Come,  fellow,  come  to  this  point  you  speak  of.  What  is 
it  you  propose  ?  " 

"  Signor,  I  come  to  you.  I  say,  give  me  twenty — ten — 
five  thousand  francs.  Give  me  that  sum,  and  I  will  lock  up 
the  Admiral,  and  you  can  go  on  your  ways  uninterrupted. 
You  refuse.  Very  good.  You  will  not  give  me  money. 
No  matter.  I  will  have  that  which  is  dearer  to  an  Italian 
than  money,  or  fame,  or  estate.  I  will  have  revenge  !  Re 
venge,  signor  !  Revenge  !  Revenge  !  " 

Murietta  beckoned  the  man  to  the  door.  He  did  not 
move,  and  the  artist  stepped  to  the  bell. 

'•'  One  moment,  signor.  The  government  offers  fifty  thou 
sand  francs.  But  I  do  not  like  the  government.  I  there 
fore  ask  you  but  five  thousand  francs.  You  refuse  a  single 
sou.  Very  good.  I  accept  the  offer  of  the  government.  I 
turn  State's  evidence.  The  Admiral  will  follow  you  no  fur 
ther.  Signor,  I  wish  you  a  very  good  day." 

The  black-eyed,  narrow-browed  doctor  bowed  himself  out, 
and  the  artist  stood  there  alone,  wondering  what  the  fellow 
really  meant. 

Fifty  thousand  francs  reward  !  The  old  Admiral  worth  a 
million  !  Counterfeit  currency  !  The  stains  on  the  Admi 
ral's  fingers  !  His  eagerness  to  get  away  in  the  company  of 
respectable  travellers,  if  even  in  disguise  !  Putting  this  and 
that  together,  the  artist  began  to  feel  pretty  certain  that 
there  was  really  something  in  the  wind,  and  that  the  mission 
of  the  dark-browed  doctor  that  morning  meant  something 
more  than  to  beg  for  money. 


23 


CHAPTER  LXY. 


A  VERY  UNFORTUNATE  MAN. 


HE  Countess  could  not  leave 
her  bed  all  that  day.  Still 
there  was  hope  that  if  no 
further  trouble  was  encoun 
tered  they  could  leave  sultry 
Milan  the  next  day. 

It    was    nearly    midnight 
when  the  doctor,  walking  be 
tween  two  officers,  called   to 
see  Murietta.    The  Italian's  face  was 
black  and  red  and  white  by  turns. 
He  was  pulling  his  retreating  mous 
tache  with  all  his  might. 

"  It  is  not  me,  Signor  Murietta, 
that  is  a  prisoner.  It  is  not  me. 
It  is  the  Admiral.  And  it  is  all  as 
You  can  leave  Italy  to-morrow,  but 
the  Admiral  will  never  leave  Italy.  Revenge.  Ha,  ha! 
Revenge,  and  fifty  thousand  francs  !  No,  no,  no,  I  am  not  a 
prisoner  at  all.  These  officers  are  sent  with  me  till  I  find 
bail  to  appear  on  the  trial.  But  I  will  appear.  Do  not  fear 
that.  Even  if  I  do  not  find  bail,  I  can  walk  about  with 
these  officers,  my  friends,  and  be  quite  happy  till  the  day  of 


1  told  yon  it  would  be. 


A  very   Unfortunate  Man.  531 

trial.  You  would  see  the  prisoner  in  the  morning  ?  Good. 
A  little  present,  Signor  Marietta,  and  one  of  the  officers  will 
lead  you  to  the  prison  in  the  morning." 

"  And  the  Admiral  is  really  under  lock  and  key  ?  A  bi« 
man  with  a  great  chin,"  queried  the  artist  of  one  of  the 
officers. 

"  A  big  man  with  a  big  chin  and  a  long  gray  mous 
tache,"  answered  the  officer  politely.  "  He  made  flight  and 
fight  also.  He  leapt  over  the  bastion  at  last,  and  then  swam 
the  canal,  and  at  last,  when  brought  to  bay,  he  fought  like  a 
wolf." 

The  artist  took  a  long  breath  of  relief.  He  walked  to  the 
window,  looked  out,  and  felt  a  sense  of  satisfaction  that  he 
had  not  known  for  days.  There  was  even  a  smile  on  his 
face  as  he  handed  the  officers  each  a  red  Italian  note.  After 
all,  this  man  was  very  hitman,  and  perhaps  enjoyed  this  al 
most  as  much  as  the  revengeful  Italian.  Yet  his  was  an 
unselfish  satisfaction.  This  meant  the  freedom  of  the  Count 
ess  and  the  end  of  her  persecutions. 

"I  shall  have  a  few  hours  to  spare  in  the  morning  before 
the  express  leaves  for  Paris,  and  I  want  one  of  you  to  come 
and  take  me  to  the  old  Admiral  in  prison,"  said  the  artist,  as 
he  opened  the  door  and  wished  his  visitors  good-night. 

They  bowed  all  the  way  down  stairs,  and  promised  to  call 
at  sharp  eight  in  the  morning. 

You  cannot  tear  up  the  heart  by  the  roots  and  let  it  dio 
like  a  flower,  try  as  you  might.  Murietta  had  so  often  and 
so  devoutly  wished  he  could,  for  his  heart  was  all  the  time 
turning  back  to  Como,  and  hovering  there  like  a  lost  bird  at 
night  over  the  pine  and  vine-covered  mountain  that  rose  up 
in  the  forks  of  the  beautiful  lake. 

He  was  an  older  man  now.  He  looked  in  the  glass  next 
morning,  as  he  stood  waiting  for  his  promised  visitor  to  lead 
him  to  the  prison,  and  there  saw  that  a  tinge  of  frost  was  on 
his  temples.  Snow  had  fallen  there  in  the  terrible  storm  and 


53 2  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

struggle  of  the  heart  in  the  days  just  past;  snow  that  only 
the  wings  of  Death  should  brush  away. 

How  sober  this  man  was  now !  He  was  as  a  monk  that 
had  renounced  the  world.  Yet  for  all  that  he  could  not  keep 
his  heart  in  Milan,  do  what  he  might. 

A  savage  sense  of  duty,  an  iron  independence,  and  a  pretty 
clear  sense  of  what  was  right  at  the  bottom  of  things,  no 
matter  what  the  world  might  say,  had  led  him  into  terrible 
straits.  However,  these  same  qualities  will  lead  a  man 
through  to  the  pure  white  light  and  up  to  the  shining  hills 
of  heaven. 

You  have  only  to  persevere.  The  straight  road,  even 
though  it  be  out  of  the  great  highway  and  popular  road  of 
life,  will  lead  you  finally  to  the  right  place,  though  you  be 
torn  by  thorns  and  set  upon  by  wild  beasts  in  the  new  way. 
The  only  danger  in  the  whole  matter  is  that  you  may  get  dis 
couraged  and  attempt  to  turn  back  or  reach  the  high  road, 
when  in  the  midst  of  thorns  and  beasts,  instead  of  pushing 
ahead. 

The  officer  came  as  he  had  promised,  and  soon  the  artist 
stood  before  the  prison.  And  such  a  prison  ! 

"With  the  most  splendid  edifice  that  Christianity  has  ever 
reared,  Milan  has,  under  its  very  shadow,  as  it  were,  the  worst 
prison  that  the  barbarian  ever  built. 

The  city  has  been  destroyed  time  and  again.  More  than 
once  it  has  been  levelled  to  the  ground.  Yet  this  old,  ugly, 
massive  heap  of  stones  crouching  down  there  under  the  bas 
tion  has  never  been  touched  save  by  time.  It  crouches  down 
there  as  if  it  were  ashamed  of  its  own  ugliness.  The  light  of 
the  sun  refuses  to  touch  it. 

How  the  old  ruin  groaned  as  the  great  doors  swung  open  ! 
Chains,  and  bolts,  and  great  rusty  rings  in  the  iron-bound 
windows  and  in  the  black  stone  floors.  The  place  was  damp 
and  even  cold.  It  was  more  terrible  than  the  tomb. 

At  last  they  came  to  the  narrow  stone  cofiin  where  the 


A  very  Unfortunate  Man.  533 

Admiral  was  confined.  It  was  a  miserable  little  cell,  but 
better  than  many  of  the  others,  for  this  one  really  had  a 
window. 

The  daylight  came  in  at  this  window,  but  timidly.  It 
came  in  as  if  it  was  afraid,  was  not  used  to  the  place,  and 
was  very  doubtful  about  the  propriety  of  being  there  at  all. 

There  was  a  row  of  stout  rusty  bars,  drawn  up  like  a  file 
of  grenadiers  on  guard,  across  this  window,  through  which 
the  sun  came  into  the  prison.  And  it  did  not  pass  unchal 
lenged,  for  a  mimber  of  black  spiders  were  very  busy  mend 
ing  a  broken  web  right  across  the  front  of  this  file  of  iron 
grenadiers,  as  if  to  shut  it  out  altogether. 

The  Admiral  sat  there  on  a  stone  bench  with  his  head 
bowed  down  toward  the  door,  and  his  hands  dragged  down 
between  his  legs  by  the  weight  of  the  rusty  chain.  Or,  more 
properly,  one  hand  was  drawn  down,  for  but  one  hand  and 
one  foot  were  bound  in  irons.  lie  lifted  his  eyes,  but  did 
not  lift  his  head  as  the  artist  and  officer  entered. 

"  I  am  a  very  unfortunate  man." 

He  said  these  words  very  slowly,  and  one  at  a  time,  as  if 
to  himself.  They  came  out  of  his  throat  as  if  jerked  out  one 
at  a  time  by  fish-hooks,  and  from  very  deep  down. 

He  moved  his  hands  as  he  spoke,  and  the  chains  clinked 
and  chimed  in  between  the  words  as  sometimes  do  the  bells 
between  the  prayers  in  the  service. 

"  I  am  a  very  unfortunate  man." 

The  old  audacity  was  gone.  The  dash  and  dare-devil  cha 
racter  which  this  man  had  assumed  and  played,  and  played 
very  well,  for  perhaps  half  a  century,  had  quite  forsaken  him 
now.  He  was  now  drawing  from  his  true  nature,  and  he 
found  that,  once  thoroughly  conquered,  he  was  the  veriest 
coward  alive. 

Prick  a  child's  balloon,  and  you  can  hold  it  between  your 
thumb  and  finger. 

The  old  Admiral  sat  there  on  the  stone  bench,  with  his  head 


534  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

down ;  and  he  kept  picking  at  find  rubbing  the  ends  of  his 
stained  fingers  as  if  he  found  them  burning  him  now. 

He  was  utterly  overthrown,  and  could  only  keep  rubbing 
and  picking  his  fingers,  and  still  slowly  repeating  his  brief  but 
mournful  story,  "  I  am  a  very  unfortunate  man." 

"  Well,  Admiral,  I  have  come  to  see  you,  to  make  sure  that 
you  were  here ;  and  now,  finding  you,  I  must  say  good-bye." 

The  sun  kept  hesitating  and  hanging  about  the  iron  row  of 
sentinels  up  in  the  narrow  window,  and  the  spiders  kept 
busily  weaving  at  the  broken  web.  What  had  broken  that 
web  ?  There  was  a  mark  of  a  man's  hand  on  the  high  win 
dow-sill,  in  the  dust.  A  link  of  the  chain  had  touched  there 
also.  One  of  the  iron  sentinels  had  the  rust  rubbed  off  about 
his  waist.  It  was  the  middle  sentinel.  The  rust  on  these 
bars  was  scaling  off  like  the  bark  of  a  tree.  A  chain  had 
certainly  been  passed  round  the  rusty  waist  of  this  iron  guar 
dian.  What  had  the  Admiral  been  doing  at  that  window  all 
the  night  ?  He  certainly  could  not  have  hoped  to  escape 
through  it.  It  was  not  large  enough  to  admit  half  his  body 
through. 

It  was  very  pitiful.  The  conquered  old  man  was  utterly 
crushed.  His  utterly  forlorn  and  helpless  state  at  last 
touched  the  heart  of  the  artist. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  to  make  you  more  comfortable 
here  ?  "  he  asked,  as  he  turned  toward  the  door. 

"  Nothing,  nothing,  nothing.  It  is  all  over.  They  have 
betrayed  me  at  the  last  moment.  And  now  that  you  are  kind 
enough  to  come  to  see  me,"  said  the  prisoner,  for  the  first 
time  lifting  up  his  head,  "  I  wish  to  say  to  you  that  I  was 
perfectly  sincere  in  what  I  proposed.  I  really  wished  to  get 
away  and  live  a  better  life." 

The  old  man's  throat  was  dry,  and  his  voice  was  husky. 
He  turned  his  head  mournfully  to  Marietta. 

"  They  will  not  let  me  have  any  wine.  They  have  taken 
away  all  my  money,  and  no  one  comes  near  me  now  or  sends 


A  very  Unfortunate  Man.  535 

me  a  glass  to  refresh  my  bruised  and  broken  body  and 
mind." 

"  Bring  a  flask  of  wine  and  a  case  of  cigars,  and  keep  the 
change  for  your  trouble."  The  officer  soon  returned  with  a 
large  flask,  a  glass,  and  a  case  of  cigars. 

The  Admiral  took  up  the  glass,  tilted  the  flagon,  filled  the 
glass  to  the  brim,  and  drank  it  off  at  a  draught.  lie  drank 
like  an  American,  and  not  at  all  like  an  Italian,  for  the  latter 
only  sips  his  wine  and  never  drinks  it. 

He  filled  the  glass  again  as  before,  and  emptied  it  as  be 
fore.  Then,  taking  a  cigar,  he  drew  a  long  breath,  looked  up 
and  about  his  cell,  up  at  the  busy  spiders  in  their  conspii-acy 
to  keep  out  the  last  bit  of  daylight,  then  taking  a  light  which 
the  officer  had  brought  him,  he  began  to  resume  the  old 
devilish  look  and  air  of  audacity. 

"  You  have  saved  my  life,  sir,  and  I  thank  you.  You  are, 
after  all,  a  very  kind-hearted  man,"  said  the  prisoner  from  be 
hind  a  cloud  of  smoke  as  he  again  emptied  the  glass.  "  Now 
sir,  look  here !  I  am  a  blunt  but  honest  man.  Ah  !  you 
smile  at  this.  You  seem  to  think  you  have  heard  it  before. 
No  matter.  Some  day  you  will  come  this  way  in  your  jour 
neys  through  the  woi'ld,  and  you  will  find  my  tombstone. 
Write  above  the  dust  of  the  old  Admiral,  '  rough  but  honest.'  " 

The  old  nature  was  rising  under  the  flask  of  wine  which  he 
had  nearly  emptied.  He  kept  the  cigar  burning  like  a  fur 
nace.  It  was  nearly  up  to  his  grey  and  grizzly  moustache. 
He  filled  his  glass  again ;  and,  glancing  up  at  the  window, 
with  its  row  of  rusty  sentinels  and  the  busy  spiders,  he  said, 
as  he  again  looked  at  Marietta : 

"  Your  health,  Signer  Marietta,  and  a  pleasant  jouraey  to 
Paris,  and  a  long  and  a  pleasant  life  with  the  Countess." 

Murietta  bit  his  lips,  but  said  nothing. 

"  You  may  find  trouble  at  Turin,"  continued  the  old  Ad 
miral,  as  if  he  again  held  matters  in  his  hands,  and  was  about 
to  dictate  terms  of  surrender.  "  Yes,  you  may  find  trouble 


536  The  One  Fair   Woman. 

at  Turin,  for  the  Prince  Trawaska  is  stationed  there  with 
Giuseppe.  You  see  the  order  cannot  allow  so  wealthy  a  lady 
as  this  to  leave  the  country.  Besides,  there  are  certain  Catho 
lics  interested  in  keeping  this  little  boy  in  the  creed  of  the 
Church." 

"  Trawaska  and  the  knavish  courier  at  Turin  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  do  not  mind  telling  you,  and  doing  you  any 
service  in  my  power,  since  they  all  have  deserted  me,  and 
some  of  them  have  betrayed  me.  If  they  hear  of  my  arrest 
they  will  be  the  last  to  trouble  you.  But  if  not  they  will  still 
go  on  under  my  orders  given  them  last  night,  and  will  surely 
intercept  you  before  you  touch  the  line  of  France." 

The  man  again  emptied  his  glass,  and  then  blew  the  last  of 
his  cigar  through  his  grey  and  unkempt  moustache. 

The  artist  stepped  up  to  take  his  leave  of  the  old  man,  and 
now  civilly,  and  very  respectfully,  offered  his  hand. 

"  You  have  won  !  "  said  the  Admiral.  "  You  have  won  ! 
But  it  was  not  my  fault.  If  men  had  been  true  to  me,  I 
should  have  landed  you  in  hell !  "  And  then  the  dreadful 
man  laughed  a  terrible  laugh,  that  sounded  as  if  it  came  up 
from  the  abode  of  the  damned. 

The  artist  said  good-bye,  and  was  going.  The  old  Admiral 
arose  and  said,  looking  down  at  the  chain  about  his  legs,  with 
that  perfect  Italian  politeness,  and  a  bow  that  was  courtly 
and  elegant,  "  You  will  excuse  me  for  not  seeing  you  to  the 
door." 

"  Certainly,  Admiral." 

ft  Signor  Marietta,"  called  out  the  prisoner. 

"  Well  !  "  answered  the  artist,  turning  back. 

"  I  will  not  ask  you  for  money,  but  I  must  ask  of  you  one 
little  favor,  since  my  friends  do  not  come  near  me,  and  I  am 
almost  dead  from  pain  and  trouble." 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  " 

"  A  little  more  wine.  And,  Signor  Marietta,  you  wear 
a  rich  red  sash  about  your  waist." 


A  very  Unfortunate  Man.  537 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Will  you  not  give  me  that  sash  as  a  keepsake  ?  I  will 
wear  it  as  long  as  I  live." 

The  artist  hastily  unwound  the  sash,  stepped  back,  handed 
it  to  the  man,  and  then  leaving  a  note  with  the  officer  for 
another  flagon,  hurried  away  to  the  light  of  the  sun.  It  was 
the  red  Mexican  sash  which  had  once  so  frightened  the 
Countess,  and  which  she  said  meant  blood,  which  he  had  given, 
to  the  old  Admiral. 


23* 


CHAPTER  LXVI. 


VIS-A-VIS  WITH  TWO  MONKS. 


HERE  was  not  the  least  rip 
ple  of  trouble,  as  tlie  little 
party  took  their  seats  iu  the 
express  train  for  Paris. 

The  Countess  had  received 
a    telegram    from    England. 
Her  father  had    reached   the 
shore  of  the    great    sea   that 
lay  between  him  and  his  home. 

"  For  the  first  time  in  five  years," 
said  the  lady,  as  the  train  shot  away 
over  the  fertile  fields  of  Lombardy, 
and  over  the  great  battle-field  of 
Magenta,  "  for  the  first  time  in  five 
years  I  feel  like  a  free  woman.  I 
am  no  longer  watched." 

She  did  not  know  the  fate  of  the  old  Admiral.  She  still 
fancied  he  might  be  at  the  bottom  of  Lake  Como,  and 
thought  their  troubles  over  all.  Yet  she  was  not  cheerful, 
but  unusually  sad. 

As  they  neared  Turin,  and  looked  up  at  the  little  Campo 
Santo  on  the  hill,  with  its  tombstones  and  monuments  shin- 


Vis-a  vis  with    Two  Monks.  539 

ing  in  tne  setting  sun,  she  suddenly  turned  to  Murietta  and 
said,  "  It  seems  to  me,  if  Count  Edna,  my  husband,  were 
here,  and  going  home  with  me,  I  should  be  almost  perfectly 
happy." 

Murietta  looked  out  at  the  white  tombstones,  as  they  shot 
past,  tapped  the  butt  of  a  pistol,  just  visible  under  his  waist 
coat,  and  said  to  himself,  wondering,  "  And  still  she  loves 
him  !  She  is  certainly  past  finding  out." 

It  was  raining  at  Turin,  and  dark,  as  they  changed  cars 
for  the  Mont  Cenis  Tunnel. 

*'  You  will  remain,  here  in  this  coupe,  you  and  your  little 
boy  together,  and  you  will  remain  locked  up.  It  is  just  big 
enough  for  you  two.  I  will  have  a  seat  in  the  car  adjoining. 
I  entreat  you,  do  not  move,"  said  Murietta  ;  "  we  may  have 
trouble  yet." 

He  turned,  and  two  monks  with  immense  cowls  were  look 
ing  over  his  shoulder  at  the  Countess  and  her  little  boy. 

He  stepped  into  the  adjoining  car,  after  handing  the  con 
ductor  a  liberal  present,  and  took  his  seat.  The  monks  in 
stantly  followed  and  sat  together  opposite. 

Around  the  rocky  spurs  of  the  Alps,  under  arches,  over 
bridges  that  those  perfect  Italian  engineers  have  made  for  the 
world  to  wonder  at,  and  the  line  of  France  was  near  at  hand. 
The  monks  whispered  together.  In  half  an  hour  they 
would  be  at  the  station  where  you  are  expected  to  show  your 
passport,  or  bribe  the  officer.  This  latter  is,  perhaps,  the 
most  common,  as  well  as  the  most  convenient  way.  The  little 
boy  had  no  passport.  As  the  monks  whispered  together,  one 
of  the  cowls  was  brushed  by  a  sudden  lurch  of  the  car,  and 
the  large  red  ears  of  the  wearer  were  uncovered. 

Murietta  caught  his  breath,  but  said  nothing.  By  a  sort 
of  inspiration  he  then  at  once  knew  that  these  monks  were 
Prince  Trawaska  and  the  courier  Giuseppe,  and  he  knew 
that  the  last  struggle  would  be  made  at  the  little  mountain 
town  where  you  are  expected  to  pay  or  show  a  passport. 


540  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

"  I  am  sick  of  this  pistol  practice ;  it  is  getting  monoto 
nous.  But  come,  my  little  iron  bull-dogs,  you  may  have  to 
bark  at  these  men,  and  bite  and  bite  even,  to  the  death." 

He  cautiously  drew  his  hands  under  his  cloak,  and  hitched 
his  pistols  around  where  they  could  be  pulled  iu  a  flash. 

"  Trawaska  !  " 

The  man  in  the  monk's  cowl  and  gown  sprang  up,  only  to 
find  a  pistol  pointed  into  his  face. 

"  Sit  down,  sir  !  There,  that  will  do.  Your  hands  behind 
your  head.  There,  fasten  them  there.  Lock  your  fingers  in 
gether  behind  the  back  of  your  neck.  There  !  so  !  The  mo 
ment  a  hand  comes  down,  by  heaven,  you  die  !  " 

"  Giuseppe  !  " 

Giuseppe  did  the  same  without  being  told  in  words.  He 
understood  the  signs. 

"  There  !  you  will  both  keep  your  hands  in  that  position 
till  we  pass  this  station.  I  will  see  about  your  passports. 
Fifty  francs  will  settle  the  whole  matter.  No,  no  !  Take 
care  ;  take  care  there  !  You  see  I  should  be  perfectly  de 
lighted  to  kill  you  both.  It  would  sound  so  well  to  have  the 
name  of  a  Polish  prince  and  an  Italian  Colonel  mixed  up  in 
a  matter  of  this  kind.  Child-stealing,  eh  !  A  valiant  busi 
ness,  indeed  !  And  then,  an  Italian  colonel  to  be  found  in 
the  car  in  monk's  clothes  with  a  bullet  through  his  head. 
How  would  it  sound,  Trawaska  ?  Just  let  me  kill  you  to  see 
what  a  sensation  it  would  produce.  Or  even  let  me  just 
mention  the  matter  to  the  next  officer  we  meet,  either  civil 
or  military.  Let  me  turn  you  over  to  him  in  your  monk's 
clothes !  Bah  !  my  brave  man  !  An  Italian  colonel  and  a 
Polish  prince  have  obtained  leave  of  absence  to  go  child- 
stealing  in  monk's  clothes.  Soft  there  !  " 

The  men  were  trembling  in  their  seats,  and  suffering  from 
their  painful  positions. 

"  Come,  we  will  vary  this  a  little.  Here  is  another  pistol  ; 
one  for  each  of  you.  Yes,  it  hurts  you,  I  know,  to  hold 


Vis-a-vis  with   Two  Monks.  541 

your  hands  there ;  it  affects  the  spine  finally,  and  stupefies 
you.  If  you  were  to  take  down  your  hands  now,  you  would 
find  them  helpless ;  the  blood  and  the  strength  is  gone  out  of 
them.  Take  down  your  hands  and  try  them,  Giuseppe,  if 
you  like ;  you  will  find  them  as  useless  as  the  hands  of  the 
dead  man  you  hid  away  in  the  dark  vault  at  Home." 

The  train  stopped  for  an  instant,  and  a  man  ran  along  on 
the  rail  at  the  side  of  the  cars,  taking  money  and  glancing 
up  at  passports,  or  old  letters  and  the  like  which  men  saw  fit 
to  hold  up  for  a  second,  still  folded,  before  his  face. 

Murietta  sprang  to  the  window,  looking  back  over  his 
shoulder  at  the  motionless  men.  A  pistol  was  in  his  right 
hand,  and  held  down  behind  him. 

He  hurriedly  drew  a  fifty-franc  note  from  his  vest  pocket 
with  his  left  hand  and  held  it  out  to  the  officer. 

"  These  good  fathers  do  not  need  passports.  The  lady  and 
the  little  boy  are  my  friends,  and  go  to  England  in  my  charge. 
Take  this,  and  drink  our  healths  and  a  happy  voyage." 

The  officer  was  perfectly  satisfied,  and  hurried  on. 

In  less  than  an  hour  they  crossed  the  line  and  were  in 
France.  The  two  men  were  pale  and  overcome  with  pain  and 
disappointment. 

"  Now  you  can  get  out  and  go  about  your  business  ;  or 
would  you  prefer  to  be  handed  over  to  these  French  officers 
in  this  garb  ?  " 

Murietta  stepped  out  on  the  platform  as  the  train  was 
about  to  move  off,  and  the  two  men  with  great  effort  followed 
him.  Then,  turning  about,  he  returned  to  the  car  and  took 
his  seat  alone  as  it  shot  out  of  the  station,  and  left  the  two 
men  standing  there,  helpless  together. 


CHAPTER  LXVII. 


IN    THE    BLESSED     ISLES. 


HE  work  was  done.  Noth 
ing  was  now  required  but 
time  and  patience  to  com 
plete  the  journey,  which  had 
been  begun  and  carried  thus 
far  under  such  fearful  diffi 
culties. 

They  reached  England,  and 
found    the    old    father    there 
waiting  for  his  child. 

He  put  out  his  hand  to  his  daugh 
ter,  and  said  faintly, — 

"  I  am  waiting  here  :  I  am  waiting 
to  cross  the  great  sea  and  go  home." 

The  countess,  pale  now  with  travel 
and  trouble,  turned  to  Murietta,  for 
her  heart  was  bleeding  at  sight  of  this. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  she,  "  it  is  not  the  great  sea  that  he  will 
cross  to  go  home  ;  it  is  the  great  dark  river  of  death." 

And  it  was  so.  Still  talking  of  home,  and  rest,  and  peace, 
under  the  cool  trees  on  the  other  side  of  the  great  deep,  he 
folded  his  hands  and  died. 

And  now  the  poor,  beautiful,  but  broken-hearted  woman 
was  more  alone  than  ever  before.  She  fell  down  and  wished 


In  the  Blessed  Isles.  543 

to  die  and  be  buried,  and  be  at  rest  from  it  all.  Then  for 
many  days  she  was  very,  very  ill,  and  was  wild  and  out  of 
her  mind  with  a  fever. 

Marietta  watched  with  her  then,  and  did  all  a  brother 
could  do — all  that  a  father  could  do,  for  now  he  was,  indeed, 
old.  He  was  as  old  at  heart  and  almost  as  cold  as  the  old  man 
he  had  just  seen  borne  to  his  grave. 

While  he  watched  by  the  bedside  of  the  Countess,  who 
was  now  almost  recovered  again,  he  i-eceived  a  package  of 
papers  from  the  consul  at  Milan. 

There  was  one,  an  illustrated  paper  with  a  frightful  pic 
ture.  It  was  the  picture  of  a  man,  a  large  man,  hanging  by 
his  neck  to  the  bars  of  his  cell.  A  cord,  a  rich  silk  sash, 
the  paper  stated,  had  been  passed  around  the  middle  bar,  and 
by  this  the  man  had  hung  himself,  and  was  found  dead  the 
second  day  after  his  imprisonment. 

The  old  Admiral,  the  founder  of  the  order  of  the  Brothers 
of  the  Altar,  was  dead.  Murietta  thought  of  the  red  sash, 
and  then  remembered  how  that  once  on  the  banks  of  the 
Tiber  the  Countess  had  shuddered  at  the  sight  of  it,  and  said 
that  it  looked  like  blood.  Carlton's  prophecy  had  been 
fulfilled. 

During  her  illness  the  Countess  had  spoken  more  than  once 
about  her  husband.  Would  he  come  to  her  ?  Could  he  come 
to  her?  Then  she  would  begin  to  talk  of  the  Admiral,  and 
say  that  it  was  impossible,  and  that  he  loved  his  clannish 
companions  better  than  his  family. 

Murietta  had  noticed  this,  arid  had  not  been  idle.  But 
now  that  he  knew  the  Admiral  was  no  more,  he  at  once  de 
cided  what  to  do,  and  acted  acordignly. 

Soon  the  Countess  was  able  to  be  wheeled  into  her  parlor. 
She  seemed  more  beautiful  than  ever,  yet  more  sad  than  ever. 
Murietta  tried  in  vain  to  rouse  her  and  call  her  spirits  back 
again  to  the  beautiful  tilings  of  the  world. 

One  day  she  was  standing  by  the  window  with  her  little 


544  The  One  Fair  Woman. 

boy,  as  the  artist  entered.  She  was  nearly  well  now  ;  and  he, 
still  weary,  still  worn  from  toil  and  trouble  and  thought,  had 
come  to  say  good-bye  ;  for  he  wanted  to  get  away,  to  be  alone 
— to  go  up  into  the  mountains  and  pray,  as  it  were. 

"  I  have  written  to  the  Count,"  she  began,  smiling  sadly, 
"  and — and  I  have  written  him  a  long  letter  to-day.  Perhaps 
you  had  better  read  it." 

"  I  read  your  letter,  lady  !  " 

"  Well,  no,  not  that.  But  you  understand  how  things  are 
better  than  I  do,  and  perhaps  you  might  help  me  a  little." 
Then  she  hesitated,  drooped  her  great  brown  eyes,  lifted 
them  up  again,  and  said,  "At  all  events,  I  want  to  send 
him  some  money.  Send  him  plenty  of  money.  Send  it  at 
once — by  telegraph — to-day — now." 

"  Countess,  I  have  sent  him  money.  All  the  time  that 
you  have  been  ill  you  spoke  of  it,  and  he  has  not  been  left  in 
want." 

"The  brown  eyes  were  again  on  the  carpet,  and  then  look 
ing  up  and  opening  them  very  wide,  she  asked  : 

"  Do  you  not  think  he  would  like  to  see  his  family?  " 

"  Certainly  I  do." 

"  But  no,  no,  no  ;  he  cannot  come.  That  oath,  that  order, 
that  terrible  man,  the  Admiral.  Ah !  I  shall  go  mad  at 
last ! " 

"As  for  the  old  Admiral,  he  will  trouble  you  no  more. 
He  is  dead,"  answered  the  artist  solemnly. 

She  clasped  her  little  hands,  and  (shall  it  be  told  ?)  said 
«  Thank  God !  " 

She  held  her  head  down  a  long  time  in  thought  and  in 
tears.  At  last,  looking  up,  she  said  : 

"  You  will  send  for  Count  Edna  for  me  at  once.  Send  at 
once — send  by  telegraph  and  say  he  is  needed  here.  Say 
anything,  only  so  that  he  leaves  that  country  and  comes  to 
me,  to  a  Christian  land." 

"  Lady,  I  have  already  sent  for  him." 


In  the  Blessed  Isles.  545 

"  What !      Have  you  ?  " 

"  I  sent  for  him  clays  ago,  and  have  had  answers,  and  he 
is  on  his  way  to  join  you." 

"  Heaven  is  merciful  !     And  when  will  he  arrive  ?  " 

"  This  evening — this  hour." 

She  sank  in  a  chair  and  bowed  her  head,  and  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands  as  if  in  prayer.  Murietta  stood  up  before  her, 
and  was  very  still.  Her  delicate  foot  tapped  nervously  on 
the  floor  in  the  old  way,  as  she  looked  up,  half  smiling  through 
her  tears,  and  with  a  brighter  face  than  she  had  shown  for  a 
long,  long  time. 

"  I  have  come  to  say  good-bye,  for  I  am  going  away.  I 
shall  return  now  to  my  work,  and  busy  myself  once  more 
with  creatures  of  imagination,"  said  the  artist  calmly  at  last. 

Her  little  fingers  were  winding  themselves  up  in  the  tas 
sels  of  her  crape  shawl.  At  last  she  put  out  her  round,  soft, 
baby  hand.  She  looked  down  into  her  lap,  with  her  great 
brown  eyes  half  hidden  under  the  drooping  lashes,  and 
said: 

«  Good-bye." 

Murietta  did  not  speak.  He  leaned  forward,  bowed  above 
the  beautiful  woman,  kissed  her  tenderly  on  the  fair  brow — 
kissed  her  for  the  first  and  last  time — and  was  gone. 

He  had  done  what  he  conceived  to  be  his  duty.  He  had 
done  this  at  a  countless  cost.  What  she  thought  of  it  now 
was  another  matter.  What  the  world  thought  of  it  was 
nothing  to  him  now.  He  left  her  with  her  husband,  and 
went  on  his  way  alone.  He  was  satisfied  with  himself,  and 
that  was  his  recompense. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Murietta  had  returned  to  Italy.  Fair  Italy  !  With  all  her 
faults,  the  finest  land  upon  earth.  Gentle  Italians — with  all 
their  follies,  the  only  real  artists — saving  the  exceptions — in 
all  the  world. 

He  felt  that  he  was  in  disgrace  in  the  great  cities,  and  kept 


546  The   One  Fair  Woman. 

well  away.  He  had  a  studio  in  Perugia,  and  worked  there 
very  faithfully.  He  was  a  silent  man,  and  as  abstemious  as  a 
monk.  His  hair  was  turning  gray,  and  yet  his  heart  was 
warm  to  the  pure  and  the  beautiful,  and  people  came  to  un 
derstand  that  this  man,  hiding  away  among  them,  and  grow 
ing  prematurely  old,  had  a  history. 

There  was  a  beautiful  picture  of  a  beautiful  woman  in  his 
studio ;  and  the  Italian  artists,  who  sometimes  came  to  visit 
him,  often  stood  before  it  with  silent  admiration.  This  was 
the  picture  of  a  lady  looking  back  over  her  shoulder.  On  the 
back  of  this  picture  was  written,  "  It  is  finished." 

He  had  never  again  attempted  to  see  Annette.  He  dared 
not  even  inquire  after  her.  Yet  he  had  somehow  learned 
that  she,  with  her  old  father,  often  left  Rome  and  its  whirl 
of  fashionable  life,  and  wandered  away  together  into  the  Alps, 
to  the  old  dilapidated  cities  there ;  and,  like  himself,  sat  down 
to  rest  and  to  dream  among  the  picturesque  and  primitive 
people. 

The  artist  had  been  here  nearly  a  year,  alone  and  quietly, 
and  in  a  measure  contentedly  at  work.  Two  people  climbed 
up  to  the  lofty  studio,  with  its  windows  looking  out  on 
the  Upper  Tiber.  He  did  not  look  up  from  his  work.  He 
supposed  them  some  other  artists  who  had  more  leisure  than 
he,  and  that  they  knew  how  to  make  themselves  at  home.  He 
went  on  with  his  work.  He  Avas  dreaming.  And  this  man 
was  dreaming  now  of  Annette,  the  One  Fair  Woman.  In 
fact,  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  find  a  moment  in  his  life 
now  when  he  was  not  dreaming  of  her,  and  her  only.  The 
world  took  no  part  of  his  time  or  attention.  He  thought 
only  of  his  beautiful  real  ideal,  and  went  on  with  his  work. 

There  was  a  rustle  of  robes,  and  a  gentle  hand  touched  hi^ 
own.  He  turned  his  eyes,  and  then  he  dropped  his  brush, 
lie  could  not  realize  it  at  first,  but  stood  gazing  into  the  face 
of  the  wonderful  being  before  him,  mute  and  quite  over 
come. 


In  the  Blessed  Isles.  547 

Then  he  thought  it  was  a  vision,  for  he  had  been  thinking 
of  her;  but  there  was  the  dreamy  old  General  behind  her, 
and  he  was  looking  at  a  picture  on  the  wall  close  by. 

"  Why,  Annette,  here  is  the  most  perfect  likeness  of  my 
child  that  was  ever  painted." 

How  gentle,  how  like  a  dream  she  was !  yet  how  match 
less  and  magnificent.  All  the  man's  life  came  tiding  back  to 
his  veins  again,  and  the  blood  mounted  to  his  face  in  con 
fusion.  Her  great  eyes  were  still  full  of  the  warm  soft 
South. 

He  did  not  reach  his  hand  to  her.  He  could  not  speak. 
He  was  stooping  to  pick  up  his  brush. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  laughing  pleasantly  at  his  confusion ; 
"let  your  brush  lie  there  on  the  floor.  Let  it  lie  there  for  a 
time,  at  least,  and  let  us  reach  hands  over  the  dead  year 
that  is  gone." 

He  extended  his  hand,  and,  looking  in  her  face,  said 
earnestly : 

"  Beautiful  woman,  is  it  best  to  reach  hands  over  the  gulf 
that  rolls  between  us?  You  see  I  am  satisfied  here — tranquil 
at  least — half  content.  Why  shall  I  suffer  myself  to  return 
again  to  the  rack  and  torture  !  Fate  decided  against  me 
at  Como.  I  accept  the  verdict. 

"At  Como  you  were  a  simpleton."  The  lady  laughed  and 
he  looked  puzzled.  "  You  are  the  veriest  child  in  the  world. 
Why  did  you  not  come  to  me  with  that  poor  lady's  misfor 
tunes  instead  of  applying  to  strangers  ?  Do  you  not  know 
that  I  should  have  been  proud  tj  help  her  through  it?" 

"  And  then  you  know  all  and  understand  all  ?  " 

He  looked  in  her  face  as  he  spoke ;  and,  holding  her  hand, 
drew  her   close   to  his  breast,  and  called  her  his  own  in  a 
whisper ;   and  she  did  not  shrink  away,  as  he  held  her  hand 
but  listened  to  what  he  chose  to  say  of  scattering  roses  in 
her  path  of  life  now,  even  to  the  end. 

"  No,  do  not  think  women  blind,"  she  said  at  last.     "  Men 


548  The  One  Fair   Woman. 

do  not  deceive  women  as  often  as  they  suppose,  either  for 
good  or  evil.  I  undei-stand  you  better  than  you  understand 
yourself.  Had  you  flinched  from  your  duty  to  that  lady 
when  she  needed  your  help,  I  should  have  hated  you,  my 
hero." 


THE    END. 


DATE  DUE 


47349-701    10-70   50M    OSP 


UC  SOU' 


000554594    2 


